Soul Empowerment Blog

What a paradox! As I gather notes for another book tentatively called Claiming Joy I am also aware of a feeling of deep vulnerability that I connect to my recent cataract surgery. Earlier in the week at Friends Meeting I announced that I was smack in the middle of a vulnerability crisis and I felt tender and protective of myself.  I felt both proud of myself and a little embarrassed for breaking rank by sharing my emotional vulnerability out loud. As a child I was judged and punished by my family of origin for having emotional needs. Neither of my parents valued their feelings. That was definitely a bind for me since I was born an empath and felt everything—until I learned I was not safe. As I grew up I shut down my feelings and tried to ignore my emotional needs in order to win acceptance and love. Conformity came with a huge price tag.

Most of my friends describe me as courageous; yet, I was anxious about my upcoming eye surgery and then shamed myself for feeling scared. Keeping my fears secret felt unhealthy. Cautiously, I shared them with a few close friends. They reassured me and shared their own success stories about being scared before having surgery. Although each one applauded my choice to have cataract surgery, my anxiety persisted like a low-grade infection.

For five decades I have turned to writing to unravel my personal challenges embedded in intergenerational family conditioning and my process of breaking rank with my own limiting beliefs. Journaling almost always brings clarity.

Reflecting back to my life before the successful surgery, I believe I was half remembering a past lifetime when I was suddenly blinded. No other explanation came close to explaining the depth of my fear. Also, I couldn’t release a freeze frame memory of the suffering and pain my friend Joan endured for weeks after eye surgery.

My daughter, who is an anesthesiologist, reassured me that cataract surgery was simple and fast and patiently explained the procedure step by step. Then she surprised me by volunteering to be my anesthesiologist. Although I appreciated her knowledge and competence, I wanted empathy not education.

Three days before the surgery, a healing angel visited me and left a fragrant yellow rose behind. I knew I had not dreamed her especially when I caught whiffs of the rose when I swam, walked the beach, or showered. A friend reminded me that the yellow rose is a symbol of Kuan Yin, Goddess of compassion and I listened and made a commitment to try to be more compassionate to myself. Then I wrote about the visit in my journal. Although I was nervous the day of the first surgery, I reframed the “pinching” sensation in my left eye during surgery as angel kisses and giggled until the doctor commanded me to be quiet.

The healing angel remained in my energy field until the day after the second successful operation. Moments before she left she said, “There is something important that you have not understood.” That got my full attention.

She continued slowly, “Your consciousness is becoming a landing strip for angels and it is essential that you understand about sacred reciprocity from our perspective.”

I giggled, and then wondered if angels needed people in radio towers to insure their safety.

“Listen. You must understand that angels are as delighted with you as you are with them. We love you. We enjoy your light and your humor. We are attracted by your sensitivity and your vulnerability. You are precious and we behold you with boundless love. “

Silence reigned. I could not find words to express my surprise or my gratitude. My heart and soul resonated with the healing angel’s words, but I had no clue how to take in the power of her message. I have felt loved unconditionally a few times this lifetime, and yet I sensed that being “received in my preciousness” went way beyond the moments of unconditional love that graced me.

Every time that I trick myself into believing that I am up for another Future Pull adventure, I learn another lesson about humility. Strange how this channeling co-existed in my consciousness with the anxiety about surgery. The angelic intervention remained in my journal—until now

At lunch, two days after my second cataract surgery, my friend Alice gently said, “Rosie, it sounds like you expected trauma.” I nodded and begun to cry. I could not find words.  She nailed the elusive feeling had surrounded me for several days. Empathy is like that.

Three days after the surgery on my second eye, I awoke in the middle of the night longing for someone to hold me. I felt like a five-year-old who needed comforting. I wanted protection and safety. I could not make sense of my yearning because the surgery was over. It must have been an overlay of the trauma.

In my regressed state I wanted a man to hold me and reassure me that I was safe and protected. I wanted him to pat my head and tell me it was over and that I was safe. It surprised me that I connected comfort and safety to a man as much as feeling young and needy. Was it cultural programming that insisted my comforter be a man? I knew I could count on women friends to comfort me if I reached out to them; however, in my vulnerability I wanted a warrior and I associated warriors with men.

In my mind, I ran though a list of my men friends and reassured myself that I knew at least six who might be comfortable in a warrior role for me. Was it a coincidence that my six candidates all lived far away? Then I pictured three men friends who lived nearby. I looked at the clock and it is 2:59 AM. “Too early to call any of them,” I rationalized to myself. Then I put two more blankets on my bed, cried for a bit, and eventually went back to sleep. However, the memory of feeling young and vulnerable stalked me throughout the next day. Like someone who is grieving feels compelled to tell their story over and over again, I felt seized to figure out my part in the story.

The next morning I remembered women and a few men that I have curled up with and comforted—some when they were dying; others when they were in extreme emotional or physical pain. Each time I felt privileged.

The following day I played bridge with two of the men whom I nominated when I made my second list of nearby warrior men. Since I sensed that being vulnerable was a lesson that I needed to practice, I decided to be truthful and share my experience. I took a big breath and began. They listened politely. Then there was silence. I felt like a child again and struggled to stay present. One of my male friends asked, “All you wanted was comfort, right?”

“Right, I replied. “Remember I felt like a five year old and I wanted someone to hold me. “As if reading his mind, I reassured him, “Sex was not on my radar or my mind.”

“What stopped you from calling?” my other man friend asked. Without thinking, I replied,      “Good girls do not call men in the middle of the night and ask them to come over to comfort them.”

“Whoa! Where did that voice come from?” I wondered as I struggled not to lose myself to   shame.

Again silence. I looked around the table and saw everyone had lowered their eyes. One started to shuffle the cards and another dealt the spare deck.  I felt alone and scared because the player’s response felt so much like my own family. What I most wanted to hear was for either one of my friends to say, “You could have counted on me,” or “ A If it happens again, call me.”

The drive to know whom I could count on for comfort persisted. I reached out to other men friends. Fortunately, three responded positively, although not before I assured them that I probably would not feel so desperate again. One explained how my request for comfort without sex probably threw other men into a vulnerable place that was unknown to them. I appreciated the feedback. I appreciate that I now know three warriors whom I can call if another emotional emergency claims me in the middle of the night.

Healing happened.  I learned that I can be vulnerable, request support, and someone will hear my need to be comforted without judging me. Most of all I learned how to persist in reaching out for support when I felt traumatized without judging myself for being defective.

I am still not clear about how vulnerability is connected to joy although I comfort myself by reminding myself that I am precious to the angels and perhaps joy and vulnerability provide the cosmic glue that connects me to my own experience and creates a landing strip for the angels. Yet I am content to allow the mystery to unfold in Divine Right Order.

In May, 2013, during a vision quest in Taos, New Mexico, I received a Spirit message: the time had come for me to expand my role beyond being a teacher and embrace serving as a leader. 
I was surprised because I am comfortable being a teacher. For most of my life I believed that I was born to teach. Leadership has been part of my personal shadow despite teaching in the Leadership program at the Creative Problem Solving Institute NYU for more than twenty years!
Yet the Future Pull soul call to step into a leadership role that honored my soul scared me and threatened to interrupt the comfortable life that I had established being a full time residential grandmother for my two growing grandchildren while my daughter worked full time as a doctor. Being present for service to my family felt right. Although I had no plans to return to my teaching and mentoring career, I had published my seventh book, Awaken and enjoyed designing workshops and retreats based on the evolutionary concepts in the book.

Yet the call toward leadership would not go away. The Spirit message was a freeze frame in my mind and the call to leadership returned at the oddest moments. Then I recalled the exact details of the vision quest. Without closing my eyes, I remembered the temperature, the smells of the nearby pine trees, the cold, hard ground that became my bed—even the name of the horse, Gizmo, who delivered me up the mountain.

I did not know at the time that I held a limited perspective of leadership in my mind and it included hard work but did not include joy. 
 Intergenerational family beliefs about leadership caught me off guard.  Mostly, I associated leadership with politics and men. The idea of being a healing leader was not in my genes. Even when I wrote and published Befriending Soul in 2013 and Living Future Pull in 2017, the idea that spiritual leadership might be a Future Pull call eluded me.

In November 2017, Lou Ann Daly, founder of OLAD! invited me to co-facilitate a women’s leadership conference called Connection and Community. More than fifty women from all over the world attended. Together we spoke about feminine leadership and the role of the divine feminine and joy. We collaborated and challenged each other in front of the group and trusted each other to be receptive to what happened next. Joy grounded the group process for three days. The after taste from each day was bliss. I appreciated that there was more than enough space for each of us as well as joy.

In January, 2018 I facilitated the Glad Helpers group at the A.R.E. Edgar Cayce Center, in Virginia Beach. We meet every Wednesday from 9:30-11:30 in the third floor meditation room to meditate and pray for healing for people who have requested prayer, all the nations of the world, as well as ourselves. We follow the tradition that Edgar Cayce established in 1931. Everyone in the group is a committed volunteer. Service is part of our community bond.  We are a serious group of women and men.

As I meditated about our group, I realized that joy was missing from our commitment. We were all very serious about being channels for blessings and healing. At that moment, I understood that Future Pull was at work on me.

In preparation, I collected several prayers that were joy based as well as some quotations from Edgar Cayce about joy. I also said out loud that if books were written about the Joy of Cooking and the Joy of Sex, why not The Joy of Healing? Being inclusive, I asked the healers in the group to ground themselves in joy before calling out the names of people who had requested healing. People looked surprised. I had broken rank with my traditional role and the outline that we follow. Members smiled. Before the hands on healing part of our meeting, I invited everyone in the room to remember a joyful event of the past week. A few looked like they needed a prompt and I suggested if they were not aware of such an event, to use their imaginations and create one.

During the third week of facilitating the group, I giggled as I understood that my role as a leader and my soul purpose were one. Joy uplifts and part of my soul purpose is to be a carrier of joy, compassion, and light.

Sometimes my role in grounding a Future Pull call manifests over night. Other times, the inner work needs to challenge embedded beliefs. I am grateful to my guides for the inner prompting to spin joy into our meditation and healing circle. I am grateful to Glad Helpers for being receptive and trusting both me and the evolving process. I remain in awe and gratitude as I explore more of the connections between service, joy, and leadership.  The after taste of this expansive experience is pure delight and I am excited about becoming a leader who is committed to joy filled service.

Ever since I acknowledged and later surrendered to the frequency of Future Pull, I’ve recognized its tugs almost immediately. At times I am surprised by the initial simplicity of the call, until I begin to live into the complexities. Other times, I sense the complexity of the call, and later, I marvel about who I am becoming as I live into the invitation. Always the Future Pull call feels like a wild card, because it interrupts my well-planned life and insists that I live a larger life that I imagined possible.

On the surface, this story begins the day that I invited my daughter and her new husband to choose a stone for me to sculpt as their wedding present. They chose a fifteen-pound chunk of light blue alabaster and I was delighted, because it looked like the color of the sky and I had never sculpted sky. Rather than ship the stone to my home in Virginia Beach, I had it shipped to Santa Fe, because I planned to sculpt with my friend Jonna Karsen for a few days over my Christmas vacation.

I busied myself filing away residue on the outside of the stone for the first couple of days. Then Jonna and I played guessing games about what we thought the stone would like to become. Since I did not have a ‘Bingo!’ response to any of our fantasies, I decided to dream and wait.

Three days before Christmas I headed to Taos with the blue alabaster stone, safely wrapped in bubble wrap, inside my orange backpack in the trunk of my lipstick red rental car. I had a plan, which meant I had expectations. When I lived outside of Taos, New Mexico almost twenty-five years ago, my favorite place to hike and meditate was on top of El Salto Mountain at the fourth waterfall. I was a quarter of a century younger then, and a lover of adventure. Even then the waterfalls were off-limits, and the rectangular tin sign was punctured with bullet holes, warning “No Trespassing On Risk of Your Life.” The land belonged to the Native Americans who lived at Taos Pueblo, and when I lived on El Salto Mountain, I had been granted permission to visit the waterfalls, but that is another story for another time.

When I drove up the one-lane dirt road to the smaller road that led to the path, I felt excited and anxious. I planned to hike about three quarters of a mile to the fourth waterfall because I intuited that I might receive some guidance about my emerging sculpture there. Knowing that Future Pull conceals more information that it reveals initially, I was content to let the mystery unfold.

Memories of channeling the Shaman of the Mountain flooded my mind and heart as I pulled off the road. Then I remembered how the ground felt beneath my feet. I reminded myself to be patient, because my lungs were no longer accustomed to being 9,000 feet above sea level, and I had also gained weight in the 25 years that had passed.

Before I turned the engine off, two young Native American men approached my car. Instinctively, I knew they were guarding the entrance to the path. I smiled and waved my hand. Their steady expressions did not change.

I opened my window and the older man challenged, “What are you doing here?”

Before I had a chance to answer, the other man yelled, “This is private property, off limits to you. Can’t you read the sign?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was hoping to visit the fourth waterfall and do some sculpting there.”

“Not going to happen. See the sign. No trespassing on risk of your life, and that includes you.”

“But I know the way. I used to meditate and pray at the fourth waterfall a long time ago when I lived down the road.”

For an instant I considered telling them that I had consulted with the spiritual elders at the Pueblo before they were born. But then I thought that I might come off as bragging or pulling rank, and I decided to remain silent.

“No trespassing. That is our law.”

I took a breath and reminded myself that the two young men were doing their job. I was a stranger to them: an older, white woman with flyaway hair, and they were protecting their land. With a deep sigh, I surrendered my expectation of sitting on familiar, sacred ground, listening to the waterfall, and maybe receiving guidance as I sculpted on the blue alabaster stone. As I closed my window, they both turned their backs and walked away.

“Maybe I will try again tomorrow,” I muttered to myself as I drove down the mountain road. On the way down, I decided to drive to the Pueblo. I reminded myself in advance that many of the elders who I had known a quarter of a century ago had died. Then I wondered how I would feel about returning to the Pueblo. When I parked my car, I tried to center myself with my breath to gain clarity and sense of direction about where to go and what to do.

I was not prepared for how many names had changed on the adobe studios that were open to the public. I felt sad and nostalgic, and missed friends and the past that we had shared. On an impulse, I decided to give my heart a vote about where I would go. The Pueblo was deserted on this day before Christmas Eve. The wind blew, and I pulled out gloves and a hat. As I looked around, one dwelling stood out for me. As I opened the creaky, wooden door, I was surrounded by boldly painted canvases of women and landscapes. As I explored the kerosene-lit studio, my eyes spotted a three-foot high pink alabaster sculpture of a Native American woman weaving on a circular loom. The smooth stone was all curves and rounded edges and all things feminine.

“Is that exquisite sculpture yours?” I asked in awe.

“No, my uncle’s. He is not from here, but he moved here a few years ago,” she explained.

“His work is awesome,” I replied.

“Yes, he has a deep understanding of women,” she said, smiling softly as if responding to a secret.

I nodded and smiled, unsure of what to say.

Just then, the door opened and the woman artist said, “Uncle, what timing! You have an admirer here.”

He took a few long steps over to me and extended his large, warm hands.

He glanced from me to his sculpture and said, “She speaks to you, huh?”

“Yes, she is beautiful.”

“Are you an artist, too?”

“I sculpt, and alabaster is my favorite stone. In fact, I have a chunk of blue alabaster in my car,” I said with excitement.

“Impossible. Alabaster does not come in blue.”

“Yes, I was surprised, too, and it handles just like pink and white alabaster.

“You are mistaken. No such stone,” he said dismissively.

“Then I have a fifteen-pound chunk of nothing in my backpack in my car,” I said defiantly.

“Bring it here,” he demanded.

I walked to my car, shaking my head and continuing our conversation in my head. When I returned and unwrapped the blue stone from its protective bubble wrap, he gasped. I swallowed my ‘I told you so’ response.

He walked toward me and lifted the stone from my hands. I watched as he turned it over and over in his strong hands. Then he stepped outside and I watched him lift the stone up to the sun and caress the edges. He was silent.

When he re-entered the adobe studio, he locked eyes with me and said, “This stone is genuine. No imposter.”

I nodded in agreement. Then he brushed it with his hands over and over again.

“You have done a good job cleaning it up. Now what?” he asked with a mixture of challenge and curiosity.

“I am not sure of what the stone wants to become. I often see shapes and visions in my head, and I’ve looked for a teacher for two years to help me gain the skills and techniques to be able to translate what I see in my mind’s eye to the stone, but I have not found a teacher.”

“That’s good,” he said emphatically. “Great Spirit does not want you to find a teacher. Besides, a white-skinned artist will not help you to remember your heritage, and Great Spirit is praying through you to remember.”

I took a deep breath and let his words dance in my body.

He smiled for the first time. I wondered if he was tracking my energy and my thoughts.

“Did you bring tools?” he asked as if we were having an everyday, normal three-dimensional conversation.

“Yes, I have files, chisels and hammers in my car.”

“Get them,” he ordered.

I felt like I was five years old and standing on a precipice, like on top of El Salto Mountain where, legend has it, that two young Native women fell to their deaths fighting over a young man. Yet I also felt like I was in the midst of a destiny date and Future Pull was pulling me forward. Without knowing how or why, I knew that if I accepted this man’s invitation, I would no longer belong to myself in the same way. As an artist, I would be new. I left and walked to my car.

When I returned, he was still holding the blue rock. I unwrapped my tools, and he pulled a chair out from under his sculpting table and ordered me to sculpt while he watched. I was surprised, shy, and curious. Yet I did not resist or ask him why he wanted to watch me sculpt. Instinctively, I accepted that we were both in the presence of something bigger than either one of us and we each were playing our assigned parts.

I meditated a few minutes before I filed. Then I took a breath, and I concentrated on the blueness of the alabaster stone and filed deeper. Then I reached for the hammer and chisel and took off more pieces of stone. I was surprised how fast my hands moved and I forgot that he was watching.

Eventually he said, “Enough. I see now what is missing. You only half remember the whorls. When you let yourself remember your native way, you will remember whole whorls.”

I felt confused. I did not know if he said “worlds” or “whorls.” And I did not want to get lost in semantics. Then I started to cry. I felt like I had to apologize for my tears and I had no words to explain. Somewhere lost in my cosmic memory was whorls. I could almost imagine the aftertaste of whorls, yet the experience remained out of my conscious reach, and I felt frustrated and bereft.

Then Manuel stepped closer to me and whispered, “Put your hand on my hand and close your eyes and watch.”

I heard him pick up a file and tried to figure out how to watch with my eyes closed. Then he began to move his right hand in slow, small spirals. I sensed he had tipped the file so it was not flat. I reminded myself to breath and opened my heart and my cellular memory to the experience of remembering.

Manuel stopped, exchanged the large file for a smaller one, and resumed making whorls. My eyes remained closed, and all my senses felt like they were on high alert. Then he whispered, “Do not open your eyes until you remember. I will stay with you until you move beyond your white woman’s chatter in your head.”

I laughed for the first time since entering this adventure, because he was right. True to his word, he patiently created whorls in the blue stone.

Slowly, I began remembering. Actually the remembering began in my feet. I asked him to stop so I could make whorls with my legs. The dirt floor of his studio looked like crossing jet trails as I danced in whorls across the floor. He looked a bit surprised but did not say a word.

When I returned to his art table he said, “Ready. Again.”

I nodded. This time as I placed my hand on top of his and closed my eyes, I was aware that I was moving his hand. I was whorling and he supported me. Although I was curious what this looked like, I kept my eyes shut, not wanting to risk interrupting the flow of the moment.

We both sighed together, as if we were one unit. I opened my eyes. Our hands stopped moving. I turned toward him and placed my hands over my heart and bowed. He placed his hands over his heart and looked skyward. Then we both looked deeply at one another without a word.

Then he spoke. “Now you see why Great Spirit was happy that you did not find an artist to teach you technique. You had to remember your past in order to live into your future. Your chatty white woman’s mind thought you needed skills and all the time Great Spirit knew you needed to remember your past and how you made whorls in stone.”

Then he pointed to the round spiral ring made of seven different stones that I’ve worn on my left hand for about six months and laughed. “You wore whorls on the finger of marriage and still your white woman’s chatter got in your way of remembering your native ways. Welcome home.”

At that moment, the door to his studio opened and in walked the two young men who had blocked my way to the fourth waterfall earlier.

“Hi, Uncle,” they both said.

I did not know which reality I inhabited. I looked from the stone to Manuel and then to his nephews and I was speechless.

The older of the two young men pointed at me and asked, “What is she doing here?” and I realized that we all occupied the same reality, even if I did not know which one.

“It’s okay. No problem. She is one of us,” he said evenly.

“But she tried to trespass on our land and climb to the fourth waterfall a few hours ago and we pushed her off our land,” the young man announced passionately.

“She needed to remember her ancient way of honoring the earth,” Manuel said gently. “Look at the blue stone that she brought with her.” Then he pointed to the stone that looked very different than the one I had brought in. “Perhaps she thought that the land would remind her of her Native roots and ways.”

Without another word, he ordered them to take me back to the top of El Salto and accompany me to the fourth waterfall. “Sit with her and guard her while she sculpts. Carry her tools and stone. She will need her strength to sculpt.” Then he waved his arms and dismissed the three of us.

My mind was filled with thoughts during the twenty-minute ride to the top of El Salto Mountain. I wanted to be calm and empty of thoughts. I wanted to be prepared to feel reverence but my mind felt full. Manuel was right: my incessant white woman’s chatter had prevented me from being present.

I sensed the presence of ancestors as my feet touched the earth when I got out of my car. All I knew for sure was that I wanted to connect more deeply with their energies. The trail to the fourth waterfall was overgrown with shrubs and small trees but my feet remembered the way. I had to stop a few times to catch my breath, and I was thankful that I was not carrying the fifteen-pound chunk of stone and my tools.

Tears streamed down my face moments before I stepped into the cave that housed the waterfall. I remembered winters when the waterfall had frozen and how it reminded me of magic. I also remembered times when I had channeled the Shaman of the mountain by this waterfall and I felt the energies of gratitude and reverence.

The two young men sat at the entrance of the cave in silence. I unwrapped the blue stone, said a silent prayer, and waited. I was surprised that my hands felt hot, even though the temperature was about 40 degrees. I felt the welcoming earth under my bottom and my feet. I knew that I had returned to this place to reinforce remembering whorls or worlds because everything felt like one.

I sculpted until my fingers got cold. Time ceased to have meaning. Moments before I put my file down, I looked at the older young man and sensed that something had happened to him while I was filing. His eyes had a faraway look, and I wondered to myself if he had popped a peyote button while I sculpted.

Then he addressed me for the first time. “I heard a song while you worked. I have never heard this song before and it came to me like I was guiding a canoe down a river. This has never happened to me before. I am not a singer or a musician, and I know the song is for you. May I sing it for you now?”

“Yes, please, but would you sing it in your native language?”

“Do you know Tewa?” he questioned.

“No, but I respond to energy,” I said, “and then, if you would kindly sing it in English, I would be very happy.”

He nodded and sang the first few words in Tewa and I sensed the presence of Mother Mary beside me. When he finished, he said that it was a song about Mary, whom Native Americans considered the Mother of the Earth, and how the colors of her costume changed according to the seasons.

Then he surprised himself as he channeled, “She is with you. She sits beside you. She is with you when you sculpt and when you pray and when you heal.” Then he was silent and he shrugged his shoulders. His friend shook his hand. I walked over and shook his hand, too.

As we walked silently down the mountain, I sensed that his channeled song was another way of prompting me to remember my creative, Native roots. Mother Mary has been a companion to me three different times in this lifetime. Her Presence and message resounded with love, compassion and forgiveness. Although I was raised Protestant, my relationship with Mary felt like Mother Mary of the Catholic faith. To expand my relationship with Mary and connect with her as Earth Mother felt like a precious gift and I giggled as I imagined “whorls” and “worlds” were the same.

I knew from experience that I would no longer belong to myself in the same way if I surrendered to the call of Future Pull. Each time I stepped into the unknown future, more was revealed. Looking back, I could not have predicted the synchronicities that happened or how I would be invited to step into my Future Self.

I am eager to discover how my Native Self will collaborate with my white-skinned self and become One as I sculpt.

The reality that I am the only survivor in my birth family challenges me in different ways. My younger brother, Ben, joined my parents in the afterlife in early August of this year. I acknowledged that I was the last branch on the family tree, but my recently acquired “narrowed reality” sneaks up on me sometimes.

Growing up, I was comfortable asking my grandmother and her mother questions about family history, recipes, or how to remove stubborn stains. I never considered that there would be a time when neither of them would be alive. My Grandmother was my Go To person for information for almost six decades. My mother inherited the role of family historian after her mother died. She answered my questions about my ancestors for another ten years until I was in my early 70’s. In a pinch, I emailed my brother but he seldom remembered family dynamics and could not understand why I was interested in tracking down old news.

Tonight I was curious about the sequence of an emotionally complicated family event that happened a long time ago. Nobody in my family was around to clarify or add their perceptions. I fantasized about programming Siri, the disembodied voice that answers questions on my iphone, to answer my personal questions about historical family events.

A few days ago, I struggled to remember the name of the Labrador retriever that adopted us when I was in junior high school. He used to eat the brownies I made directly from the pan. I remembered what he looked like and even how he smelled. I remember the sound his tail made when he wagged it and hit the wall. Yet I could not remember his name. My memory felt constipated. Later in the day I remembered his name—Shadow—but the details of how he adopted us and what happened to him had disappear from my memory.

This morning I tried to remember where the origin of the long, gray knitted Christmas stockings that hung from the fireplace each Christmas Eve. I remembered that my name was embroidered in bright red yarn on the top and for years the stocking was taller than I was! When I closed my eyes, I scrunched my nose as I remembered the slightly moldy smell.

Later I shared with friends my dilemma about where to go for clarification about family events now that I am the sole survivor. I explained that I was in the process of writing about my challenge and the writing itself seemed to be working me by bringing up even more half digested memories. They nodded their heads and sympathized with me. Later I wondered if they were being confronted with a similar experience.

I am not sure why the missing information feels important to me but it does. I want to know. I desire to remember the details clearly—not because I am writing a book or for any specific reason except the fullness of memory.

Knitting feels like an apt metaphor. When I was in second grade, I remember dropping countless stitches when I first learned how to knit. I dreaded pulling out the completed rows or maneuvering the small yellow crochet needle with my clumsy, little girl hands. Missing pieces of memories feel like dropped stitches out of time.

My grandchildren pepper me with their own family questions whenever we are together. I enjoy their curiosity and I encourage them to use me as a family encyclopedia. I smile as I keep track of their questions:

How come your Grandfather’s name was “Bompie?”

What was his real name before you nicknamed him Bompie?

Did he really have no hair all his life?

How much did your Grandmother get paid to work in a drug store?

Weren’t there child labor laws when you worked with her when you were nine years old?

Who taught you how to make a frappe?

Why was Industrial Arts called that when you were in high school?

I encourage them to ask questions while I am alive because I wished that I had asked more questioned and written answers and memories. I was not prepared to be the last branch on the family tree. Sometimes I bump into a void where there used to be part of a story. And yes, I realize that I am aging and aches and pains and forgetfulness is part of the aging process. Then I sigh and appreciate that longing is connected to belonging and belonging is connected to family history.

At least for this moment, I am content to belong to the present while acknowledging that I have forgotten some of the past. Perhaps not being able to remember is like grief that sneaks up unexpectedly and leaves no visible trail. Yet I am grateful to my ancestors and the memories that we share.

Looking back, it seems like thoughts about “crone” filtered into my consciousness unbidden. No specific event warranted my attention. Since I understand the affinity of synchronicity with future pull, I was curious. During a conversation with a friend who talked about her hopes and dreads about becoming the matriarch of her family, I suggested that she substitute the word “crone” because it held more power and less karma and intergenerational bias. I was surprised by my words. Future Pull was once again pulling me forward into a deeper way of knowing.

The following morning I awoke with the words “crone’s bones” on my lips. I checked to see if the words were remnants of a dream and found none. Then I giggled as I realized the words were channeled to me by one of my tribe of guides.

Later I smiled as I looked at my face in the mirror as I brushed my teeth because I often feel truth in my bones. When I was younger, I validated truth by the Goddess bumps that appeared on my arms and legs when I was speaking or listening to truth.

Now that I am enjoying my 7^th decade, my bones are my antennae and grounding.

When I turned fifty-five I participated in a croning ritual with four other women. All I remember is that we were welcomed into a clan of older women and we listened as they told stories of what it meant to be in the world as a crone. Although I enjoyed the ritual, I did not feel different after the ceremony or in the following decades. Until now.

What I know about my crone’s bones is that they have no tolerance for the everyday conversations that occupy many people. Spirituality, creativity, silence, movement and conscious relationships please my crone bones.

Crones, like hermits, prefer silence and enjoy solitude. Traveling between dimensions and swapping magic and wisdom with the ancestors, guides, angels, and teachers both past and future delight my crone bones.

When I am in touch with my crone bones, becoming has little interest to me. I am content to be. Time is my ally—not my adversary.  I know I have all the time in the world to create. Healing accompanies creativity. Sometimes I offend others with my abruptness. Wisdom does not wait. I no longer have a need to compromise or appear to be less than I am in order to fit in. Being intimately connected to my crone bones feels like returning to my soul’s home that resides in my bones.

How do I begin to explain that a loon was my teacher for three months this summer? During the previous three summers, I befriended Nature by sleeping in my tent surrounded by trees, boulders, and the unending night sky. I leaned to trust in the night and the darkness and the innate friendliness of the earth beneath my body.

This summer and fall my assignment in apprenticing to pleasure and leisure continued, and my venue became the lake and the solitary loon was my Future Pull call. Instead of delighting in the chaotic dance of the nightly fireflies and the endlessly changing night sky, I was attracted to the fluidity of the clouds and the changing rhythm of the water. My body relaxed and I felt the resurgence of water, air, fire, and earth within me. Depth beckoned my heart and mind.

Although I have written about how people often serve as representatives of Future Pull for one another, I had not included animals even though I often consult the Native American Animal Medicine cards for meaning when birds or animals cross my path. This summer I grew bolder and described Future Pull as God’s Call as well as a frequency.

A lone loon picked me up during the last week of June as I settled into the cozy purple cottage at Camp Etna in Etna, Maine . I spotted him earlier when I heard his haunting call. Then he disappeared. Just before I swam to shore, he surprised me by coming up in back of me and swam about four feet in front of me and stopped, turned around, looked me directly into my eyes, fluffed his wings and exposed his ample underbelly.

I wanted to clap my hands in glee, but I felt mesmerized and beyond expression. When my rapidly beating heart slowed down, I knew in my bones that we had become forever friend in an instant. When I recovered momentum and stepped out of the lake, I waved to my new friend and shouted; “I’ll be back to swim with you tomorrow.” All night I heard loon calls and although I was tempted to get up and walk down the long, dirt path and over the railroad tracks to the lake, I resisted my impulse.

The next day I looked up the meaning of loon is the Native American Medicine card deck and discovered that loons are symbols of peace, harmony, generosity and they are also considered to be Divine Messengers.

Some days he appeared as if waiting for me; other days I vigilantly scanned the lake for him. Mostly, he appeared when I was concentrating on something else: the yellow and white lotuses, the cloud patterns, a fish jumping nearby, a heron outlined against the tall trees, or two adult eagle flying in circles over my head.

Many days we swam together uninterrupted for at least a couple of hours. He always settled about two arms lengths on my right side. When I slowed down, he followed. When I sped up, he matched my rhythm. Some days he swam up behind me and surprised me moments before I headed for shore. Always, I prolonged my swim. At times, I pushed myself to be loon friendly although my finger nails were purple.

No thoughts, or things to remember to do, or even fantasies. I joked to a friend that I enjoyed more one to one time with my loon friend than many partners share with one another.

For decades I remember saying, “Trust that all is in perfect Divine order and I tried to live into that multi-dimensional way of living and Being.” My daily adventure with the loon required no trying or planning or even visualizing. In fact, when I energetically made an intention to attract the loon, nothing happened. It was only when I let go of expectations and surrendered to the beauty that surrounded me that the loon arrived. Sometimes he surprised me as I tracked the blue heron that camouflaged itself in the brush near the lily pad garden. Other times he fluttered his wings and alerted me to his presence as I tracked the quartet of eagles flying in circles high over my head. Clearly, I was not in charge of his appearance or disappearance.

One day I did not swim because of the loud thunder and startling lightening. The next day I was surprised when I stepped into the lake at my usual spot and spied a slender loon feather on a nearby rock. I smiled, then cried, and celebrated by doing my version of a loon dance.

When I was not swimming, I enjoyed hammering and chiseling a whale’s tail, out of a 98 pound chunk of industrial sandstone. I smiled as I shook my head and admitted that nobody told me that industrial sandstone had the strength of granite and marble, and my diamond-studded files were useless.

Surrender was the continuing lesson as I chipped away pieces of stone. Each time I used my will and my strength to chip away another layer of stone, instinctively I knew I would be disappointed. When I backed off and listened to the stone or meditated before picking up the hammer and chisel, I was guided.

Once again, being receptive and allowing —rather than trying hard brought pleasure and fulfillment. I felt supported in my continued lessons about patience and precision by the frequent calls of the loons.

Three weeks ago, the loon surprised me with a friend. I was excited for him.All summer he was alone. Not anymore. I nodded to her. She ignored me but continued to swim next to her mate. I wondered how or if we would adjust to being a threesome. No worries. She swam beside her mate as if our friendship was natural. A week later she left his side and swam about two arm lengths away on my left side.I giggled as I imagined these two magnificent birds were my wings and with their help I could fly if I desired.

Last night, September 29^th, about three months to the day that I met my loon buddy, I woke up at 2:23 AM. I felt sad because I had not seen my loon friends for the past three days. Then I remembered how joyful I felt on September 26^th, when I spotted them swimming towards me. I sang my Hello Loons song loudly and they both flapped their wings as they swam closer, I opened my heart even wider. A feeling of Spaciousness connected us. I felt as if Nature held the three if us in her embrace. Reverence reigned.

As I recalled our last time together, I realized that I had no regrets. I was present. In the same moment, I also understood that I had completed my apprenticeship to pleasure and leisure. I let go of judging myself for the two years it took me to complete the lesson and concentrated on the blessings. I had opened my heart even wider than I imagined was possible. In the process, I reclaimed my inner and outer joy and grace as I surrendered to beauty, co-creation, and Oneness.

The next day Wachian gave me a message from Spirit at Healing Light Church. He said that the loons wanted me to know that they have a fine memory and will remember me when I return in June. Also, he channeled that they invited to remember them by feeling their presence in my heart. Yes, I know how to do that because Radiance resided in my heart. No think, trying or working hard. Simply by remembering grace, I will connect with my friends, messengers of the Divine. For the lessons and the blessings of my friends the loons, I am forever grateful.

Synchronicity

An overweight, black man in loose-fitting, wrinkled clothes, about sixty years old, said “Hello” to me as I grabbed my pocketbook from my trunk. I was curious because I was a half hour early for my hair cut appointment and I never park in the lot that I was in. Plus, I seldom stuff my pocketbook in the trunk.
Before I had turned around completely, he moved into story. He told me that his wife was in the hospice ward at a local hospital and he had hitch hiked to the mall to find a job stocking shelves at Office Max. I told him I was a member of Glad Helpers and explained how we send healing prayers to people who requested them. When I asked him what his wife’s name was, he looked surprised and said without hesitation, “Margaret.” Then I asked him for his name and said that I would include his name on the healing list as well as the names of his wife’s medical team. He wiped a tear from his eye and continued, “I tried to talk to two white women earlier about my wife and my circumstances and one spat at me and the other one hollered at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly.
He nodded and continued, “You seem like a kind woman and I am ashamed to ask you if you could spare a few dollars so I could buy something to eat before I go back to the hospital?”
Before I left home I had stuffed a $50 bill for my haircut in my wallet next to three one-dollar bills. Although he asked for a few dollars, I knew three dollars would not be enough for a meal and I also felt I would be disrespectful to offer him so little. Besides, I could charge my haircut.
Without trying to reason with myself, I pulled the fifty-dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it to him. In the moment, I was not concerned if he was telling me the truth or scamming me. All I was aware of was how circumstances converged and the two of us were face to face in a crowded parking lot. Handing him an unexpected gift filled me with joy and a sense of being in the right place at the right time. I was delighted to practice generosity and he was a grateful participant.
I watched him as he opened his eyes wide. Clearly, he had not expected to receive a fifty-dollar bill.
“Praise the Lord,” he said, “Praise the Lord. You know, lady I don’t drink and I don’t do drugs, and I try to be responsible but the cancer made us poor. We lost our house and my wife needed me to be with her and I lost my job.”
I assured him that I would keep him and his wife in my prayers.
We hugged and I watched him walk away, shaking his head and muttering words that I could not hear. I too walked away, shaking my head and sending out gratitude for the opportunity to be a channel of blessings.

Courageous Creativity

I am an artist. I also enjoy speaking out and expressing myself. Both require courage. However, I was not aware that creativity and courage co-existed within my heart until Lynda Marvin, a friend in Maine, emailed me and thanked me for my “creative courage” in response to a photo I posted about the emerging Bridgit. She emphasized that sculpting stone was less forgiving than either clay or oils. I held my breath when I read her words, “creative courage.” On reflection, I realize that my soul is comfortable with the phrase; yet my “little self” shied away.
Later I searched my memory for an example of a woman who embodied both courage and creativity. Sadly, I found none in my ancestral lineage. Then Hildegard of Bingen beckoned me from nine centuries ago. She feels like part of my spiritual family. When I taught with Matthew Fox, I meditated with her mandalas, listened to her liturgical hymns, feasted on her visionary theology, marveled at her poetry, and prayed to her. I also used many of her herbal remedies. One of her quotations that I memorized long ago reads,
“Love abounds in all things,
excels from the depths to beyond the stars,
Is lovingly disposed to all things.”
I grew up in a family where neither creativity nor music was valued.
Although I was both an imaginative and intuitive child, I discounted both as frivolous. College was serious business. No room for creativity or courage. I knew how to memorize facts and theories and my intuition served me well—so well that I graduated college in three years with high honors.
In my thirties, the death of my 14-year-old son, Mike, thrust me into grief and later my spiritual journey. I yearned to understand the meaning of life and my own soul purpose. Creativity, intuition, and healing were points on my inner compass. Looking back, I appreciate how I embodied courage as I affirmed the power of creativity in my daily life. Two years ago I challenged myself to put “Cosmic Catalyst” on my business card.
During a recent Friends Meeting, I felt more inspired to write more about courageous creativity than to build silence. My heart spilled out these words as I breathed and befriended courageous creativity:

Courageous creativity means I approach the 89 pounds of soapstone that will emerge as Bridgit with an attitude of collaboration as I await instruction and inspiration.

Courageous creativity means that I am more comfortable with being curious than thinking that I already know how the future wishes to evolve through me.

Courageous creativity means I align more intimately with my eternal soul and reassure my temporal ego that there is room for all.

Courageous creativity means I consciously make time to be alone and receptive to the creative forces that surround me.

Courageous creativity means I trust and surrender and trust and surrender.

Courageous creativity means I express my emerging truth from my heart when I feel called to speak and I also nourish silence when my heart asks me to be quiet.

I feel a combination of amazement and amusement when I wrap my heart and arms around my unique expression of courageous creativity. Synergy erupts.
I giggle and imagine Hildegard and Bridgit joining the dance of courageous creativity. Then I bow in reverence.

When friends ask me how my summer in Maine was, I reply, “It was the best summer in my life.”

The next question is usually, “What made it so pleasurable?”

“Sleeping in my L.L. Bean pop-up tent during July, August, and September,” I reply honestly. “The best way I can summarize my outdoor adventure is that I no longer belong to myself or the universe in the same way as I used to.”

Before anyone asks another question, I explain that I have a long history of avoiding sleeping outdoors. In fact, I have only camped out three times — always at the insistence of friends — never alone. I have tented out twice in Chaco Canyon, in New Mexico, because there were no motels, and once in Scotland, because it was easier to acquiesce than to argue with my partner. I felt safe knowing other campers were close by. Memories of snores and stars intermingled in my memory as well as the aroma of campfire bacon.

Seldom did any of my friends ask to join me. June Bro, my 93-year-old soul friend, was the exception. When I returned to my beach house in Virginia Beach, she grabbed my hand and said, “If I lived in Maine, I would join you, Dear.”

Then she told me about her one-month camping adventure in Canada when her four children were young.

Many friends warned me of the ever-present dangers of bears, moose, coyotes and someone even added the possibility of a rabid mountain lion to the list of nocturnal predators. I comforted myself by remembering that I had befriended bears during my vision quest in Taos, New Mexico, and deer are my totem as well as my middle name. That left the band of yowling coyotes and they, too, were my familiars since I co-existed with them for seven years when I lived in Arroyo Seco and San Cristobal, New Mexico.

Who knows if the soul call had its own timing or was destiny’s response to the questions that I had written earlier in May in my teal blue journal:

• Is it possible for me to substitute clock time for Nature’s time and live the way my ancestors lived?
• Is it possible for me to slow down and count clouds and stars as my familiars?
• Is it possible for me to co-exist with Nature so I feel Mother Earth as my second skin?

I recognized the familiar beckoning of a soul call and eventually surrendered to my next jumping place. I knew from experience that words often diminish heart-centered, numinous encounters. I yearned to experience — not understand. Therefore, I declared my tent off-limits for writing or reading. Then I replaced my usual delights with a vow to surrender to the vastness and beauty of the nocturnal mystery.

Camping out felt like a lazy woman’s vision quest — minus the prayers, the warrior sweat lodges, the fasting, and the night vigils. The first week I was sleep-deprived. I shifted between being scared and awed, and being mesmerized by shooting stars and listening to the eerie sounds of a hoot owl and reminding myself that I needed sleep.

For weeks, I was fascinated by the liminal transitions from dusk to dark and dawn to day. The border times between day ending and night beginning and night turning to dawn felt sacred to me. I was filled with adoration, humility, and silence.

For months, hours slipped by. I had nothing to note and nothing to prove. I was content sitting on the ground, surrounded by massive granite rocks, towering pine trees, admiring the uninterrupted starry sky, with the fireflies as my only company. I even let go of wondering if I was emptying or filling up — or both.

Many times I wondered if the zillions of stars think that the fireflies are their relatives, and then I remembered that Native Americans related to stars as the campfires of their ancestors. Then I marveled that fireflies know how to be fully lit and I am only learning the art of high beam living and loving. Somehow my body remembered that we are all made of the dust and light of far off stars and I now include “stars” when I end my prayers with thanksgiving to all my relations.

My basketful of reflections include:

• The night sky is lighter than my bedroom at night.
• The earth smells different at different times during the night.
• Just before 3 AM, an audible “hush” happens as though the earth herself has neglected to exhale.
• Thousands of fireflies that frolicked for many hours surrender their light two hours before dawn. By August, the airborne fireflies are no more and I notice their lights decorate the ground-not the air.

Twenty-seven nights have passed since I felt at home in the earth and awed by the night sky. The feeling of remembered radiance accompanies me. Nature offered me another dimension of befriending my soul. I am adjusting to sleeping inside again and the sound of ocean waves has replaced the sound of the pine branch that patted my tent every night. I believe that camping out was another way to expand my practice of taking my silence and gratitude into the night. Deep bows to the earth.

Synchronicity At Play on Virginia Beach

Synchronicity is my playmate, especially when I listen, watch or intuit.  Surprises co-exist with an inner recognition as I reflect on a recent synchronistic encounter.

Picture me writing outside on my deck when my intuition interrupted me with the words  “beach time.”

I quickly put on my bathing suit and walked twenty feet to Virginia Beach since merging pleasure and leisure is one of my current lessons.

The tide was coming in and I watched a woman toss bread to the hungry seagulls.  I clapped as one caught a piece of bread crust in mid air. She got up from her chair and walked over to my blanket. We greeted each other as naturally as children do when they meet each other as strangers at a park or playground.

“Are you from around here?” she asked politely.

“Right down the street,” I said.

“And you?” I inquired.

“I was born here. My Dad was in the Navy. Actually I was born in the old hospital that used to be on 21^st Street.  Now I live in Asheville, North Carolina.

“So you have come home?” I responded.

“Guess you can say that. I’ve come back to the ocean. I hope it can bring healing and some resolution to my shattered life,” she added as she closed her eyes and bowed her head.

“Water is a natural healer,” I said. “No expectations and it will support you while you float.”

We both looked away from each other and out toward   the crashing waves.

“I am trying to put my life back together. It’s complicated. My husband of 34 years died six months ago. We were separated when he learned that he was dying. He moved out and we did not reconcile. I have four grown children and they are the best. The school I worked at put me on a leave of absence and said I was too distracted to work. Her words were labored and felt chiseled with grief.

Since I realized that I was on “God’s time” which is always aligned with synchronicity, I asked,

“So you are free to choose who you want to be and what you desire to do now?”

“Not exactly…. Well, maybe if I were not so exhausted from selling the house, disposing of all his precious belongings, and dealing with the myriad details of death.” She sighed.

I reached out to hold her hand saying, “Grief is demanding in all ways: emotionally, mentally, socially and spiritually. And I can imagine that your decision to separate from your husband before either of you knew he was dying makes your grief really complicated.”

“Exactly, we did not do a legal separation although we both knew our marriage was done. Consequently, I don’t know if I am an ex-wife, a widow, or still his wife.  And family, friends and even people who did not know us have stories about who I should be. And I will run smack into the middle of all their stories as well as my own memories next weekend when everyone gathers to celebrate his life at a memorial service.

She took a breath and said, “I can’t believe I have just told you my whole story and we are not even on a plane.”

“I’m curious, if you had one wish about how you might live the next few years of your life, what would it be?”

Without thinking, she replied, “I would write. I’ve always wanted to be a writer and there never was enough time. But I don’t know if I am being realistic or just running away from my life.”

I shrugged and smiled at her.

“I have another question for you. Are you game?”

“Sure, why not? It seems like we were destined to meet and become beach buddies,” she replied.

“I wonder if you dare to risk being delighted?”

She sighed and then said, “Nobody ever asked me that question before. But I get survivor’s benefits so I can support myself financially if I am frugal.”

I nodded my head and then said, “I am a writer and I would have deep regrets if I had not followed my dream of being a writer.”

“What motivated you to write?” she asked.

“The sudden death of my 14 year old son, Mike. I desperately needed to create meaning and figure out a way to heal my broken heart and learn how to trust life, God, and the future again.”

She sighed and then I sighed. Then she said, “I knew you were wise.  A passion for writing and living through grief are two things that we share.”

“Yes, “ I said and I think we have another belief in common.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“We both believe in the possibility of healing and we both returned to the ocean to promote our healing. I am glad you escaped to the beach, “ I said quietly. Want to go for a swim?”

“Someone warned me of the undertow earlier,” she said.

“Can you swim? “ I asked.

“Of course, “ she replied with a slight smile.

“How about you?”

“I am a strong swimmer and also a cautious one. Besides how can we expect the ocean to heal us if we don’t jump in?”

We scrambled to our feet and ran to the water’s edge hand in hand. The last sound I remember as I dove into an oncoming wave was the sound of our laughter.

I am enjoying a book, Of Water and Spirit: Ritual, Magic and Initiation in the Life of an African Shaman by Malidoma Patrice Some and dreaming about my grandmother. He writes about his nurturing relationship with his grandfather with deep reverence. Ancestors are honored in his country in Africa.

His stories about his grandfather remind me of my grandmother. She is my ancestor and I believe I am her legacy. Recently I purchased three aprons— the long ones that cover me from neck to knee.  Decades of memories of my grandmother danced in my memory. Nanny (I named her that) always wore an apron. Many times she decorated herself in an apron from morning until night. One day I reminded her to take it off minutes before we departed for church!

My Grandmother also wore nylons that hooked to a garter and although she seldom weighed more than one hundred pounds she always wore a girdle.  I remember the one and only time I saw her in slacks, although I no longer remember the occasion.

I dedicated my first book, Healing Grief—A Mother’s Story, to her, writing, “To my grandmother, Shirley Jellerson, who has loved me unconditionally since the beginning of time.”

She loved me unconditionally for fifty-six years.  I was perfect in her eyes, which caused unrest in our family where nobody felt entitled to be perfect and everyone yearned to be.

I know I am living her legacy when

I love like her

I listen without criticism or judgment like her

I begin and end each day with prayers like her

I forgive like her.

I make a lemon meringue pie like her

I openly grieve the loss of friends like her

I write Thank You notes like her

I nurture my grandchildren like her

I shop for Christmas presents in July

I believe we chose each other well. She is my ancestor and I am doing my best  to live her legacy out loud.

Yesterday at Virginia Beach, I watched a lone surfer playing in the waves.

Then I spotted shiny, black bodies surfacing and then disappearing. The dolphins are back! The surfer, too, must have spotted them, because he began paddling fast in their direction. They were about fifteen feet in front of him.

I continued to watch the race until I realized he would never catch up to them, even though he was a powerful and persistent paddler.

I wanted to scream, “Stop pursuing. Surrender. Invite the dolphins by your stillness.” But I knew he could not hear my voice over the crashing waves. However, maybe he intuited my guidance, because he abruptly stopped paddling and stood up on his board.

My eyes wandered to the dolphins and I wondered if they would respond. Imagine my excitement as I watched eight dolphins change course and swim in his direction. I sunk my feet deeper in the sand to remind myself that this was really happening. When the dolphins were within three feet of the surfer, he laid down on his surfboard.

I watched as the dolphins surrounded him, and swam round and round his surfboard for nearly five minutes. From shore I applauded and did my own version of a dolphin dance. Then I applauded again, unable to contain my glee.

When the surfer returned to shore, I greeted him. As he reached out to shake my hand, he said, “I had this feeling that you somehow were part of that once in a lifetime adventure.”

I nodded. Then I said, “I appreciated the whole thing, every moment of it.”

“It was awesome, huh? Who knew that if I remained still, they would circle around and visit me?”

I smiled, satisfied that now two of us knew. Just then my imaginative heart reached out to the dolphins that had disappeared. They knew. So now we are ten knowers.

Thank you for this day and this lesson.

Sitting in the front seat of my car, daydreaming and drifting because I was about half an hour early for a book signing at Leapin’ Lizard’s in Freeport, Maine.

Without warning, I “bumped into” another energy. I was surprised and curious.  The other energy reacted as it was also surprised.

Without thinking, I expressed energetically, “What are you doing here in my consciousness?”

“I don’t know,” he replied energetically.

“Me, neither,” I added.

“I guess I am confused,” he said, and his energy dispersed. “People I love don’t speak to me any more and I think they don’t even see me. When I reach out to touch someone, touch does not come back to me. And the craziest thing is that the wind goes through me.”

I took a long breath and breathed to the bottom of my belly to center myself and then tapped my fingers against the steering wheel before I spoke.

“But you hear me, right?”

“Yes, but not through my physical ears,” I said softly.

“Do you see me?”

“I see you as energy, like I feel your Essence, but I do not see your body or what you look like.”

“Do you know what I am?” he asked.

Before I could reply, he said, “I didn’t do drugs, honest, and this feels too big and it has lasted too long to be a dream.”

“What’s the last thing that you can remember about when you had a body?” I asked tenderly.

“A big blast and then darkness.”

“I don’t think there is an easy way to tell you this. I don’t even know your name. But I believe you are dead.”

“Are you dead, too?” he asked.

“No, I am sitting in the front seat of my car about ready to do a book signing.”

“How come you ‘get’ me and nobody else acts as if they know me anymore?”

“I have experience communicating with people who are dead. Although I prefer to call these people Inspirited Ones rather than dead. Sometimes I help people who are stuck between the dimensions of living and dying to ‘further on,’ if that is their choice.”

Silence.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Feels to me like we kind of bumped into each other. Maybe you found me,” I offered.

“I am still confused.”

“I might be able to help you understand; are you up for that?”

Silence.

I sensed his nervousness and confusion.

“I am wondering what you believed happens to people when they die.”

“No Noth…nothing. Life is over. Kaput. Over. Song ended.”

“And then? ” I asked.

“Nothing, over is over.”

“So you do not believe that the journey continues after death.”

“Right. That is all poppycock.”

I sighed, hoping words would come to me. I did my best to explain that what we believe creates our reality whether we are living or Inspirited. I suggested that perhaps he has created no future because he had no belief that energy continues after death.

Then I stopped talking because I was aware that words were creating a gap between us rather than a connection. I wanted to stay connected to him and our conversation.

I breathed a few times. Then I continued, “Look, one of the reasons we are communicating is because I believe it is possible to talk to people who are no longer in their bodies. I have done this many times. That experience leads me to believe that life continues. I was not raised to believe this way.”

“I believe you, but I don’t know what I believe about being dead. “

“Of course you do. You believe exactly what you are feeling. There really is no difference between living and dying when it comes to beliefs. We receive precisely what we believe.”

“Are you telling me that if I believed that family members and  my ‘Nam buddies who are dead would be able to see me and help me—they would?”

“Yes, that is what I am saying. And the stronger you believe a thought, the quicker it will happen.”

I took a clearing breath and sensed him drifting away. Intuitively, I knew he was in the process of crafting a different reality.

I smiled, threw him a kiss and bountiful blessings.

Then I unbuckled my seatbelt, opened the car door, and walked rather unsteadily to the door of Leapin’ Lizards for a book signing about Soul Befriending, smiling at the soul befriending experience I had just left.

This is the first blog I have written in several months.  For more than two years, I concentrated my energy and attention on writing my 8th book, Soul Befriending. My twenty-seven month “pregnancy” is now officially over. The manuscript has covers, a spine and a bar code. I have mailed autographed copies and entertained at book signings.

Today I am aware that my consciousness has gradually shifted from work mode to relaxation mode. Upon reflection, I wonder how my writing experience might have been different if I had consciously included relaxation and pleasure while I organized chapters, edited, and proofed my writing.

I inherited a Puritanical compulsion to work hard and delay pleasure, play, and relaxation until I had completed a project.  While writing Soul Befriending, I often fantasized about a spontaneous picnic, a dance on the beach, meandering in the rain, or creating snow angels in the snowdrifts. Yet I plodded along with writing and re-writing the book. A former partner once told me that I was the hardest working person he ever met. I did not believe him then. I do now.

Although I intentionally set an alarm clock to ring at ten minutes before each hour to remind me to take a body break, it was never enough time to evoke leisure or to laugh at myself when I remembered how I had written “authentic elf” instead of “authentic self.”  Compressed leisure did not satisfy my need for relaxation.

As I continue to muse and journal about opening to pleasure and leisure, I wonder why I did not bring memories of pleasure and leisure into this present life time from past lifetimes?  For sure, I can align my future self with the emerging values of leisure and pleasure. When my grandchildren visit, I always ask, “What is your pleasure for this morning, afternoon and evening?” Then we enjoy the myriad ways they instantly respond to my invitation to play. Now I ask the same question to myself at various times during the day and make it my practice to extend pleasure and leisure to myself. I even made a list of my pleasure mates! My newly-born practice of pleasure alerted me to the existence of my bliss body that I now appreciate always co-existed with my demanding work ethic.

As I reflect upon a future writing project, I vow to blend in delight with depth as I commit myself to a more leisurely work schedule. I am curious how writing will flow when my inner split between work and pleasure is healed. For the time being, I will befriend relaxation and when the inspiration to write happens, I will co-create with pleasure and leisure. I promise.

Stones as Teachers

Rosie with a few of her stone teachers

Pythagoras, a Greek philosopher and mathematician, believed that stones were frozen music. I have never heard a stone’s song, but I have learned valuable lessons from rocks.

Sculpting and healing belong together for me like an engagement ring and a wedding ring. I was called to sculpting two decades ago when my friend Sarah submitted her fragile body to chemotherapy. I was determined to give her something she could hold in her hands during her radiation treatments. The idea of making something from stones popped into my mind and I was startled.

When I picked up my first piece of white alabaster stone, I stared at the two-pound rock and started to hyperventilate! I was flooded by every negative statement that I had swallowed since childhood about my inability to make art. Then I cried. Without warning I sensed a strong current of energy that seemed to emanate from the stone. I responded to the loud negative voices inside my head and the inviting energy from the stone, by shrieking, “I must make something healing for Sarah to hold.” Then I sensed the stone saying, “Yes.” My creative and healing relationship with stone began

I wish I could write that sculpting was easy. I can’t. I wish I could say that I was overwhelmed with flowing grace from the stone. I can’t. I wish I could brag that I never again doubted that I was creative. I can’t. Looking back, all I know is that I was passionate about making an object that Sarah could hold in her hands to remind her that she was whole in spite of the potential danger and good of chemotherapy.

Five days later I gave Sarah a small polished figure of a woman in the child’s yoga position. She smiled, unable to speak because of the ventilator in her mouth. Then she caressed the figure and turned her over and over. She smiled, nodded her head and then we both cried.

Almost three decades later I continue to be a student of stone and healing. Even now before I pick up a diamond-studded file, I hold the stone. Then I lift it close to my ear in case this is the one I will hear sing. Next I turn the stone over and over studying the texture, the angles, and the way light enters. If the stone is not too big, I put it under my pillow and dream with it.

Before I make my first cut in the stone, I am deeply aware that my first gesture will change the stone’s structure. I hold my breath when I file the first time. I feel as if I understand that a transformation is in process and destiny waits. Then I breathe and listen and watch for a response from the stone. Once again I look at the stone from all angles hoping that the stone will call me into a collaborative relationship. Often I file too softly at first. I am cautious and I don’t want to make a mistake. Then the stone calls me to file deeper. Surrender is part of my creative process. I let go of the first few forms that I imagine the stone can become in favor of being curious. Then I stand back and gaze again at the emergent form and remind myself that each time I let go of a familiar perspective, I create space that allows other forms to arise.

Stone teaches me about persistence and vulnerability. When I become frustrated because I am unable to see or do what seems to be the next step sometimes I walk away. Then the familiar refrains return: I am not good enough, smart enough, creative enough committed enough, and I feel my vulnerability. Eventually, I befriend myself and return to the stone with more patience and a degree of self compassion.

Last week I ordered a 50-pound wedge of peach alabaster. I am ready to sculpt big. When it arrived, I placed it on my bedroom bureau. It is the last thing I say good night to and the first thing I say good Morning to. This morning I stopped and tapped its side and then bent down and licked the orange top. I have no words to explain why. At this point in our relationship, I have no clue what this stone will teach me as I work with it. I do know that I am ready to enter the mystery. Perhaps this stone is the one who will introduce me to music if I listen closely. Perhaps I am the one to sing this stone teacher awake.

Shadow Wisdom Teachers

If you are committed to your spiritual journey, sooner or later you will encounter who will challenge every cherished belief, both spiritual and mundane, as well as your integrity, self-esteem and your patience. This person is your chosen shadow wisdom teacher.

Why include “wisdom” in their title? Simply because this person teaches you what your soul values in reverse. In other words, eventually you return to your inner values and wisdom through embracing your shadow self. For example, you might discover you value kindness as a result of experiencing its polarity, which may be cruelty. Or you may realize trust is one of your values by experiencing suspicion and distrust. If clarity is one of your values, you may experience confusion. If you value honesty, your shadow wisdom teacher might invite you to collude in ventures that lack integrity.

In my experience, shadow wisdom teachers are masters of impression management. Since intuition is one of their many resources, they excel at reading your energy. Remember that energy is information. Once they attune to your vulnerabilities, they work skillfully to become your ideal friend, lover, advisor, or colleague. For example, if you value sensitivity, your designated shadow wisdom teacher will ooze empathy. If you enjoy adventure, he/she will enthrall you with tales of intrigue and invite you to co-create a life of excitement. If you appreciate knowledge, he/she will impress you with cognitive mastery. If you seek commitment your shadow wisdom teacher will overwhelm you with devotion. He/she may also promise protection, advancement, or special powers, all the while feeding on your energy and light.

Shadow wisdom teachers disguise their real motives while they manipulate and thrive on dominance and control. Publicly they profess their generosity, love and even awe of you. Always look beyond the words to the behavior.

Discernment is seldom present during the seduction phase and especially absent during the take over phase. Here are some questions to answer if you suspect you are or were under the spell of a shadow wisdom teacher:

Did you grow in the relationship?

How did your designated teacher treat you when you are alone?

How does your designated teacher treat others?

Does your designated teacher encourage your friendships with others?

Does your designated teacher support you in pursuing your individual passions?

Does your designated teacher honor your knowledge, values and your  light?

The key question to ask is, “In this relationship, are you in alignment with the light?”

Firing your shadow wisdom teacher can be a fierce struggle. Some describe the encounter as a life or death duel. Remember your designated teacher is an energy vampire and it is unlikely that he/she will cooperate with your desire to end the free banquet. Yet your commitment to end the toxic relationship is a desire to be free in your own energy and to realign with your soul purpose.

Remember that honesty and discernment are essential for self-mastery. Also, remind yourself that shadow wisdom teachers are skillful magicians. First, take responsibility for allowing or inviting your teacher into your life.  The first step is taking back your power to take full responsibility for attracting this energy vampire into your life. Next, take an honest inventory of your core vulnerabilities and any unfinished business in your life. Were you bored, lonely, scared, and ready for an adventure, without direction or seduced by an offer of financial abundance? Did you enjoy the attention or the pursuit? Be aware you might have been motivated by multiple needs.

Then surround yourself with compassion and send it to the wounded part of yourself that attracted your shadow wisdom teacher. As you let go of resentment, there is room for the energy of forgiveness. Take a moment and think about how you may have played the role of a shadow wisdom teacher for others in this lifetime. Next extend forgiveness to yourself and your teacher. Why? Resentment and judgment dim your light and decrease your ability to love yourself and others.

Now it is time to create a release ritual. Why? A ritual creates a boundary between who you were and whom you are coming. It is an act of empowerment.

I wrote this journal entry about firing my shadow wisdom teacher for all time.

         I walked to the deserted beach. The sun was high in the sky. It was almost high tide and the waves crashed to shore. I selected a large black stone and poured all the energy draining incidents that I associated with my shadow wisdom teacher into the stone. One incident that dimmed my light tumbled over another and another. When I felt finished with my story, I said out loud: I, Rosalie Deer Heart, from the Essence of my Being hereby dissolve and disintegrate all my links and cords with you from the past, present, and future. I breathed deeply into my belly and imagined letting go of my shadow wisdom teacher. When I felt like I had more room in my energy field, I continued:

          I, Rosalie Deer Heart, from the Essence of my Being, now bless and release you to the schools of wisdom where you may grow within the light. I thank you for teaching me the consequences of not listening to myself, not loving myself, and for teaching me in reverse how much I value kindness, peace, love, creativity, and community. I command you to leave. Now.

         Then very unlady-like noise arose from my belly. I repeated the breathing exercise a few more times to be certain I was free. Then I ran into the cold ocean and I flung the stone as far into the water as I could.

         When I returned to dry sand, I breathed in and reclaimed qualities that are in alignment with my soul purpose. I giggled and moved my arms, legs, and hips as I breathed in the energies of clarity, self-love, trust, creativity, power, humor and joy. Then I celebrated my freedom by dancing barefoot on the wet sand. My return to myself felt like a glorious homecoming and I giggled and yelled, “Yes” to the universe and to my heart.

         Looking back, if I had remembered to ask my intuition if the person who pursued me was in alignment with light, I may have saved myself much pain, isolation and soul searching.

Then again, maybe the crash course offered by my designated shadow wisdom teacher was important. For sure, I recovered myself and learned to trust my instincts.

The Veterans’ Day Parade

November 27, 2012

     The cook and waitress who served us breakfast said, “Bangor loves a parade. Everyone turns out and they are happy. Veterans from all over the state come to march and remember and be honored. If you have never been to a parade in Bangor, this is your chance.” The mystery of the blocked off Main Street was solved. Our morning was free and Malia and Noah, my grandchildren, begged me to take them to the Veteran’s Day parade. We staked out our places at the curb, right in front of the grandstand. We were surrounded by people of all ages awaiting the parade. The weather was balmy, almost spring-like, and people dressed in shorts and short-sleeved shirts and wore sunglasses.

Someone announced that the parade had crossed the bridge from Brewer to Bangor and we easily forgot our impatient thirty-minute wait. Fire trucks blasted their sirens, and police cars blinked their lights and turned the volume up on their radios, and ten bands added patriotic songs to the ninety-minute parade.

World War II veterans from all branches of the service led the procession and I marveled at how they all marched in step.  Perhaps years had affected other aspects of their memories, but they all remembered how to march. They did not look tired from the two-mile march when they approached the grandstand.  I watched their forward stares and my heart softened. Unexpectedly my eyes filled up with tears.  I looked at the faces of the uniformed marchers and I appreciated how they had served our country. Then I felt flooded with grief as I realized thousands of young men and women had died in service. I had never felt a heart connection with the meaning of “service” men and women before.  Buses transported wounded WW II veterans as well as those too feeble to march. The crowd erupted in hoots and cheers as the aging veterans hung their heads and arms out of the bus windows, waved small American flags and smiled. Spectators hugged any service person within reach and then hooted.

During the long parade I felt my personal history unraveling and my heart open. Patriotism is complicated for me.  Love of country has felt synonymous with war and I feel like I was born with peace genes.  All my life I have felt an inner split between patriotism and peace. My father was a WW II Veteran. When I was about five years old, he ordered me to place my right hand over my heart when the American flag passed by during a parade. I obeyed, but I was embarrassed because none of my friends had to do it.  Today my grandchildren easily follow my lead, placing their hands over their hearts without resisting or questioning. My family of origin supports the military 100%. My brother and cousins volunteered and fought in the Vietnam War. My father and my uncles fought in World War II.  My grandfathers fought in World War I.

For decades I have actively supported peace. For years I had a banner on my car, which read, “Arms are for hugging.” When I was a college student, I opposed the Vietnam War and drove conscientious objectors across the border from Maine into Canada. During the Iraq War, I marched for peace and participated in peace vigils in the sleepy town of Cayucos, on the central coast of California, dreading the thought of marching against future wars. Even when I intervene in a squabble between Malia and Noah, I ask, “Who is the peace keeper here.”

The ear-piercing 21-gun salute was a sharp contrast to the band music and the boisterous cheers of the crowd. Silently we honored veterans who died in service. Malia had never been present during the 21-gun salute.

She whispered, ”Why is everyone so quiet, Grand mom?”  ”When will the guns stop?” “Do you think it is safe to fire guns in a parade?” “What about pollution?”

When I whispered short answers to her questions, my voice did not feel like mine. Malia leaned into my body and demanded to know why I was sad when everyone else was happy.   Once again, I felt my heart trembled with emotion. I felt love and respect for all the military men and women marching in front of us.  I imagined that they were remembering friends who died in service to our country.

A small group of Korean veterans marched by us. Like the WW II servicemen, they marched in unison and saluted other veterans on the curb. Next the Vietnam veterans marched before us. They are of my generation and looked older than I expected. Some smiled and waved. What a relief to see that at last they knew they were appreciated in spite of the war that divided families and our country.

A tall, slender man in his 80s dressed in an immaculate brown military uniform saluted each group that marched by.  On second glance I noticed the front of his uniform was decorated with medals. A petite, white-haired woman stood beside him, her hand in his. Dozens of people approached him, saluted, and said, “Thank you for your service, sir.” I watched as he acknowledged each Cub Scout, Girl Scout, ROTC member, and other veterans with a full smile, a nod and a Thank You.

I tried unsuccessfully to swallow my tears. He looked over at me and said, “I am proud on this day, proud of the job I did, proud of these other servicemen and women, proud of our country, and proud of you for bringing your grandchildren here today and your tears.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say and a bit embarrassed that he had caught me crying.

Then a body memory of standing in the visitors’ tower in Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus, seized me.  Eighteen years ago I visited the partitioned capital of Cyprus. I looked down at three horizontal trenches occupied by young soldiers with guns. Never before had I felt the fragility of peace so strongly in my body. Occupying the first row were young Cypriots, United Nations Peacekeeping Forces held the middle column, and Turkish teenagers occupied the third dugout. The trenches were within a broad reach of one another, close enough that someone could throw a box of cigarettes or a grenade to someone in the neighboring trench. I felt nauseous as I realized that one incendiary comment was enough to ignite a battle. I remember with precise details how my body shook as I knelt down within view of the potential combatants and said a prayer for peace.

This lifetime I was born a Pisces with six planets in the sixth house, which is known as the house of service. Throughout the decades, astrologers have cautioned me, “Rosalie, the theme of your life revolves around serve or suffer.” Service has seemed wedded to self-sacrifice and over giving. While watching the parade, with a wide-open heart, I felt like I was standing at a threshold of wrapping my arms around a different way of being of service.

In my heart, I know peace is joy resting. I also appreciate that I have lived many times before this present lifetime. Service is familiar to my soul. At this moment I feel as if I am ready to  embrace an expanded meaning of service— one in which service is grounded in joy, peace, and well being for all.  If I intentionally embody my inner values and express peace, joy, and well being in my relationships and actions, I am confident that I can heal my life long split between peace and patriotism. It is time.

Good News!   Harvesting Your Journals: Writing to Enhance Your Growth and Creativity written by Rosalie Deer Heart and Alison Strickland is now in Kindle format as well as soft cover. This is a perfect holiday gift for journalers and writers-in-waiting. Order your copy now at Amazon.

Midwives of Dying: Bridgers of Consciousness

November 18, 2012

Nearly three months have passed since the death of Darlene, my friend of sixty-three years. I am not finished telling her story, which is also part of my continuing story.  Darlene was my oldest friend. We lived on the same street for all our school years. Our parents were best friends. Although she was two years older, we enjoyed being together.

I was present when Darlene got her first horse and named him Mr. Biff.

I was present when she had her first accordion recital.

I was present when Darlene received her first kiss in the New Theater in Old           Orchard Beach.

I was there when she fell in love in Puerto Angel, Mexico.

I was there when she learned that her second husband had killed himself.

I was there when she had a dream about building a retreat center in Guatemala and then did.

I was there when she decided to turn her poem stories into a book entitled

Woman on the Run.

I was there when she announced the chemotherapy had destroyed the  cancer cells and she would live a long life.

I was there three months later when she learned she had days-not weeks or  months-to live.

Together we went through Brownies, Girl Scouts and Rainbow Girls.

Together we feasted every summer on fried clams at Wormwood’s Restaurant.

Together we entertained her mother and my grandmother by reading our stories to them in the evening.

Together we pulled off a surprise 85^th birthday party for her mother, Janie.

Together we walked for miles on Old Orchard Beach.

Together we spoke in whispers about our spiritual journeys and marveled    about coincidence, timing, and healing.

As I review my journals about Darlene’s dying time, I understand how dying is an altered state of consciousness. Time changes. Focus shifts. The world outside the dying room seems to disappear. Being with a dying person also induces an altered state of consciousness in oneself. Watchful waiting turns five minutes into an eternity. At times I sense the presence of invisible others—family lineage as well as guides, and even angels.  Sleep deprivation also adds to the experience of existing in a different reality.

As a midwife to the dying, I bridge dimensions of consciousness. I consciously use my breath to ground myself in order to be present while Darlene gradually lets go of her breath.  I remind myself to breath and love, love and breath, while affirming the preciousness of her life and trusting in the evolving future.

I challenge myself to be more present by asking myself who and what I bring to the dying process?  As I write, I hope I will ask myself that same question during my dying time.

Paradox reigns. Friends remember the dying person’s life at the same time she is leaving her life behind. Detaching in love is the work for both the dying person as well as the caregiver.

Letting go of needing to know how, why, or when,

Letting go of the need to speak,

Letting go of the future we imagined sharing

Letting go of the illusion that I can make dying less painful.

Letting go of expectations of her and me

Letting go of letting go

Several months ago I marveled at the simplicity and beauty of a life sized, hand hewn wooden cradle made by the Shakers. It is their tradition to rock someone who is dying. The meditative rhythm of the rocking brings comfort and perhaps a remembering. I appreciate how the cradle is a bridge between birthing and dying.

As a midwife and friend, I surround my friend with love, trust, and possibilities whether spoken or unspoken. Sometimes that means maintaining my connection with the person who lives inside and beyond all the medications.  I breathe to energize and quiet myself as I remember to stay tuned to her essence rather than the diminishing life force that is her body.

Three months after Darlene’s death, I still have a vivid memory of the exact moment that she made her decision to die. I was standing in the hallway of a Hospice Center with three other women listening to a young woman tell a story about how she knew that her grandmother was ready to die.  Although I was interested in her story, I was on alert in case I sensed or heard Darlene calling for me.

In the middle of the story, I felt Darlene call me.  I hurried to her bedside. Her eyes remained closed.  I bent down to touch her head and she whispered, “I have been searching for you everywhere.” I squeezed her hand. She smiled.

Without using words, I energetically asked if she were ready to die. She nodded.  Then I read her energy, and the words resonated with, “I don’t know how. “

She, who prided herself on being in control and always dedicated to manifesting her intentions, had little life experience with letting go or surrendering.

“No worries,” I said out loud. “I know the way. “

I spotted a tiny tear fall from her left eye.

She nodded.  She had heard my stories of midwifing grandfather, Bomp, my Uncle Bud and my father, Ben, when they died.

I whispered in her left ear, “Let’s time travel through space together. Maybe you will remember dying before. Maybe you won’t. It doesn’t matter.  We will practice and celebrate your ongoing journey.”

Before we began our exploration into other dimensions, I reassured Darlene’s human self that I would not abandon her. Energetically she agreed to practice leaving her physical body behind and merged with her light body. Before we pushed off, I sent gratitude to Ben Bentov and Robert Monroe, who mentored me about journeying out of body.  Out of respect, I asked Darlene for permission to lead the way and she nodded. Then we were off.  Our launch felt as simple as breathing.

I thought to myself that our light bodies were like airplanes and Darlene energetically joined me and remembered that Richard Bach, author of Jonathan Living Seagull, described doing loop de loops in his airplane.  I reminded her that as my co-pilot she could take over the controls whenever she wished. Then I reassured her that she could return to her physical body, too.

“We are co-creating your own GPS routing and repetition is allowed,” I said. “This is   practice.”

Yet we both knew this was a dress rehearsal for dying.

“I trust you will know when you are ready to leave the earth plane,” I said energetically.

Three or four times, Darlene was within a nano-second of surrendering her last breath. She gasped and returned to her physical body. I waited until she signaled that she was ready to venture outside her physical body once again. Each time we lifted off and out, she gained confidence.

As I re-read my journal, I appreciated how much Darlene allowed herself to take in the love that friends offered during the final days of her life. I cried when she asked  “Can you believe it, Rosie, only now that I am dying do I appreciate that friends loved me and that they loved me all the time-even when I did not return their love?”

I wrote about how sad I felt for her as well as deep compassion. Darlene’s personal story was filled with abandonment and betrayal as well as travel, adventures, accomplishments and magic. I choose to believe that she willed herself to stay alive, in spite of much pain and suffering, in order to fill up with the love that she desired for a lifetime. I choose to believe that love gave her courage die. I choose to believe that the love she accepted from friends accompanied her on her journey.

As we age, I believe we will either serve as midwives for people we love who are dying or else we will be the recipients of loving midwives.  I am also deeply aware that each time we midwife another; we practice for our own dying time.  Assisting one who is dying to bridge dimensions is a sacred art and a precious gift to the evolution of all. I am deeply grateful to those “Inspirited” family members who reminded me of my Essence in their dying times.

My wish is for all of us to grow our consciousness so we are more present during our own dying time.

To read more of Rosalie Deer Heart’s blogs, please visit her website at: www. heart-soul-healing.com and click the Soul Empowerment Blog.

Soul Story or Personal Story: Your Choice

November 9, 2012

I believe the cosmic frequencies are accelerating and amplifying. Many describe the shift as Ascension. Frankly, the title does not matter to me. What matters is that I make a daily intention to live my life from the perspective of my soul story and let go of my personal story. Both stories co-exist.

Today I feel like an artist of life who is busy co- creating a new gestalt. The foreground comprises my expanding soul story and the background includes my limited, personal story. Each time I act from a soul perspective, I flourish. When I act from my limited personal story, I create drama and suffering. The results of my choices feel instantaneous while only a few years ago the consequences required more time to manifest. Time itself feels like it is accelerating.

When I align my energy and actions with the perspective of my soul story, I risk being bigger than I thought possible. For example, several years ago, I obeyed a soul calling when I moved from South Portland, Maine to Arroyo Seco, New Mexico, with my 17-year-old daughter. We knew nobody in New Mexico. Most of my friends and family thought I was out of my mind to leave my birth state and travel so far away. Nothing about my decision made sense; yet I knew with every cell in my body that my choice was connected to my soul’s evolution.

During my second month in my adopted state, I attended a large conference on healing in Santa Fe. I spotted a woman who felt familiar to me from across the room.  She looked up and we giggled. At break time, we found each other and hugged. Then she surprised me by asking, “What’s your story, sister?”

Without planning what I might say in advance, I shared the story of my recent move to New Mexico.  I ended the saga by confessing that I still did not know the purpose of my move—only its rightness.  Then I took a deep breath and whispered, “I think my soul has plans for growing me up.”

“Your turn, sister,” I said laughing.

Without hesitation she told me how she had recently quit her stressful job as head nurse in an intensive care unit because she no longer felt fulfilled and she yearned for freedom. She too had no clue about her next steps although she knew in her heart that she had made the right choice.

I nodded and hugged her, appreciating that we had both responded to our evolving soul story. Although neither of us had lived into our answers yet, we were both more comfortable with the unknown territory of our soul story than the narrow perspective of our human story.

Last April I stepped out of my personal story and left my grandchildren and daughter to participate in my second vision quest. Once again my soul called me back to New Mexico after a fifteen-year absence. I was ready to learn more about what the future was asking from me. The three days and nights outside on the side of a mountain were personally challenging.  However, the agreement I made to the reclaim my role of being a teacher and to step into the role of leader felt huge. Before I trekked down the mountain, I committed to reminding people about the intimate interconnection between energy, frequency, intention, dimensions, and wisdom.

During the next four months I designed the seven-month course called Embodying Soul. Occasionally, I heard the doubting voice of my personal story that reminded me of the scarcity economy, nobody was really interested in what I desired to teach, and I was wasting my time.  My favorite personality strategy was the declaration that I was doing a spiritual bypass.

Nevertheless, I persisted. Dare I share that the 7 month course that meets for three days in Florida in January, three days in New Mexico in April and three days in Maine in July is almost filled?

Starflower Farm

Three months after my vision quest in New Mexico, I listened to my destiny path, or soul story again, and wrote a check for a one-month residential artist retreat at Starflower Farm in Monroe, Maine.

The only thing I knew for sure was that I yearned to experience silence, solitude, and immerse myself in Nature and my creative process.  No interruptions except those that I provided. However, a month seemed extravagant and scary to me. To satisfy the curiosity of my friends and family, I said that I planned to experiment with combining clay and stone. In reality, I had no clue what I was being called to do or become. I knew from experience the meanings would not surface until I surrendered deeper and deeper.

I became entranced by the idea of making rattles the third day of my retreat. I understood instinctively that creating clay rattles was linked to my soul story. Yet my personality story erupted and challenged me to question if my passion for designing rattles was my way of avoiding learning how to throw pots on the wheel.  I persisted and made more rattles. After I had crafted a few dozen rattles, each with its own essence, I surprised myself by doubting my own knowing. I entertained thoughts that I was wasting my time and energy making something that didn’t matter, had no value, and nobody would even like. The familiar family voice demanded to know why.

That night I dreamed of rattles, I heard the sounds of rattles in my sleep, I drew pictures of rattles, and I even channeled a poem about rattles:

Rattles as sound smudges,

Rattles as grounding instruments

Rattles as timeless as eternity,

Rattles as inducers of altered consciousness,

Rattles as healing sounds and shapes

Rattles as shape shifters

Rattles as ritual containers,

Rattles as echoes from home.

In order to gather support to continue expanding my soul story and add a sense of harmony to my energy field, I asked Squidge Davis, my teacher, if she thought I was “going nowhere” with my rattle making. She smiled and said softly but with determination,

“Rosie, rattles are one of the most ancient archetypal images. If they are calling you, I advise you to listen. If you are attracted to creating rattles, why question your motivation?”

For three weeks I concentrated on making more rattles of different shapes, different textures, different sounds, different vibrations, different colors. It is November. Four months have passed since my retreat and I continue to create rattles. One thing I know now that escaped me in the summer months is that they are energy rattles. I brought rattles to my workshops and used some in my healing session. I have given rattles away as gifts and strangers have bought others.

“How are they connected with my soul story?” you might ask.

My response is, I do not know yet. I do know that I enjoy collaborating with the clay, which is earth, to create sound and beauty. I do know that the rattles affect frequency and I do not need to know more.

I believe that the upgraded cosmic light frequency, which pulsates through us, links us to soul purpose and a deeper engagement with our eternal Identity. The challenge becomes how to integrate and harmonize our ego identity. One thing I know for sure is that compassion remains part of my soul story and judgment, blame and shame are no longer an option.

When I act on Ram Dass’s advice to Be Love Now, my soul rejoices. I do not need to know anything about why or even the future. I am present for the evolving story. As I collaborated with the earth to make rattles, love led. Even now as I touch and look at the earth rattles, my heart opens and love accelerates. That is all I know and all I need to know. Yes!

Rosie’s Rattles

Photos by Ed Rosenberg

Body as Vehicle for Awakening

October 25, 2012

Creating my 7-month mastery course called Embodying Soul has stirred up many connections. I remember one of my favorite lines from Rainer Maria Rilke:  “The future must enter into you long before it happens.” I chose the word “Embodying” consciously. I wanted everyone to know this course was an opportunity to return to their body as the vehicle for awakening wisdom.

Re-awakening to my body happened during a month-long artist retreat last July. Squidge Davis, my pottery teacher, (www.starflowerfarmstudios.com) observed me for a day and believed that my intuition had overshadowed my instincts. She ordered me to wear a blindfold so that I would experience that my body was the home of sensations, instincts, feelings, and creativity.

For two and one half weeks, I wore a wide red blindfold for several hours of the day. As a result of not seeing, I became more aware of texture, sensation, and the feeling of the clay, and less engaged with trying to figure out how to make or force a shape. I was stunned that the pots I pinched and coiled blindfolded appeared more symmetrical and attractive than the ones I created with my eyes open!

Like many of my generation, my mother believed every word that Doctor Spock wrote. Feeding a baby only at scheduled times was one of his commandments. My grandmother and mother often told me the story of how I screamed and screamed so loud that they closed the bedroom door and used earplugs. I was hungry and they were trained to feed me only on schedule. My instincts were frustrated and I made a decision not to trust them.

My ongoing story of reclaiming my instincts and listening to my body’s messages continues with a strenuous Pilates class where my teacher Valerie Kitchen reminds me I have a flexible body and that it is important to gain stability and strength to add to my flexibility. In my Qi Gong class, I am guided to soften my body and my eyes and to track my sensations and energy. Once again I honor that it is my body that is the vehicle for my awakening.

“Of course!” I say to myself, remembering that on some level I have known this elementary truth for decades. I smile because when I teach intuition classes, I remind people to be aware of their unique body signals and to track which ones register truth and which body sensations alert them to a non-truth. I tell people they do not need to buy a pendulum because their body is a trustworthy pendulum. Relating to my body as both a vehicle for wisdom as well as a reliable smut detector makes me happy.

As I write this blog, I remember to soften my breath and sink more deeply into my body. Then the echoes of a song erupt from my heart: “I am an old woman, I am a new woman, I am the same woman, deeper than before.” Many times I have heard the saying, “We teach best what we are learning.” I agree. Embodying Soul is my present and my future.

Evolutionary Choices

October 8, 2012.

Daily, I remind people to remember that their unique soul purpose is an evolutionary obligation. I know that sounds serious. Our soul depends on each of us to create experiences and expressions that are in alignment with agreements we have made for its continued evolution.

I remind people of their essence, their soul purpose, which I sometimes describe as the by-laws of their Being. I assist people to awaken to their magnificence. Sometimes I remind healers-in-hiding, or writers-in-hiding, or artists-in-hiding that they have a soul agreement to express their gifts and competencies in this lifetime. In addition, I might remind someone who is dying to transform regrets in order to experience more freedom and peace before they surrender to death. Other times, I point out how a past lifetime theme that has not been integrated but continues to reside in a person’s energy field robs their host of energy and free will this lifetime. Yesterday I reminded a person who struggled to decide whether to commit to her marriage or divorce that from a soul perspective her choice did not matter. What mattered was to be truthful, clear and clean.

Assisting others to peel away their social masks, cultural and family conditioning is easier than being aware of my own defenses and shadow. One of the reasons I committed to a four-week residential retreat was to deepen into my own form of creative self-expression, which is one of my evolutionary obligations.

I made a bold commitment to silence and learning more about potting and sculpting. In addition, I planned to befriend my instincts and sink more deeply into my physical body. I felt both scared and in touch with a sense of the sacred in the weeks and days before I embarked on my solitary journey.

Access to Internet and telephone were limited. No newspapers, television, or other electronics existed. Eight days into my mostly silent artist’s retreat, a friend discovered my whereabouts and called to announce she was dying. The aggressive cancer that was supposedly decimated during radiation returned and was galloping throughout her debilitated body.

She was scared. Since she was an only child and both her parents were dead, she wanted me to be with her. We were friends for 63 years and she knew I had served as a midwife to people who had cradled death.

I have a well-earned reputation for being a loyal and responsible woman. Like many women, I also have a history of over-giving and over-achieving. Compassion fatigue has claimed me more than I care to count in this lifetime.

Grounded in my heart as well as my body and surrounded by ancient trees and a clear, starry sky, I paused before I breathed into my heart and inwardly asked if I had a spiritual responsibility to be with my friend at this time.

The heart-centered evolutionary response was instant. My guidance was to remain on retreat for the next twenty-two days. As I continued to breathe into my heart’s truth, I acknowledged that I knew how to energetically support Darlena long-distance. I prayed for her to regain her clarity about how she wished to die. I prayed for a merciful and peaceful death.

Sometimes evolutionary choices are hard. I struggled with being selfish and then reminded myself that energetic support counts. I called her and then returned to my clay and stone and practiced being creatively generous to myself.

Then I engaged in positive self-talk to counteract the chiding inner voice that accused me of not being a good enough friend. I also reminded myself that I would be more present for her after three more weeks of solitude. My intuition said she would live for another six or seven weeks.

Trusting my intuition felt huge. Being generous to my deepening creative process as my friend prepared to die felt bizarre and right. Letting go of what I ought to do in favor of listening and following evolutionary guidance freed me to be honest. When I understood that honoring the timing of my own inner journey was an evolutionary choice, I realized I could be present for myself and also present for others.

Death and Presence

September 30, 2012

 I itch and avoid writing about Darlena’s death – my fourth friend who died within a year. How can this be happening? I ask the empty room. How come death is stalking my peers?

Only last year I adjusted to receiving monthly social security checks. I remember the first time a receptionist referred to me as an “Elder.” I responded by looking behind me to spot the elder.

Many years ago, although it feels like yesterday, I remember the flat sound of my grandmother’s voice as she warned me that I, too, would live long enough to attend the funerals of everyone I ever knew and loved. I remember her wrinkled hands and swollen knuckles as she squeezed my hands saying, “At my age, funerals are the only social events I can count on.” I nodded. I thought I understood. I did not.

Yesterday a friend surprised me when she asked me kindly if I carried any left-over feelings about the death of Darlena, my friend of 63 years. I had no words.

She is dead and I am left with questions, tears, relief, and gratitude. Some of the questions that surround me include: Is anyone truly prepared to die? How do we live our lives so we do not have a regret heap that surrounds us during our dying time? How do we remain conscious of our needs – both soul and human needs as we gradually take leave of our physical body? How can we live our life so we love and let love in each day? How do we remain present in our dying time?

Cancer stalked and claimed Darlena. She survived chemotherapy. Cancer survived too, and galloped through her thin, ravaged body. She was worn out and feared getting older and sicker. Cancer was unmerciful. We both wanted her dying to be fast and merciful. It was neither.

Nobody talks about how to prepare ourselves for this final rite of passage. Few people practice surrendering. Yet each of us will be midwives for friends and family as they die. How do we prepare ourselves to be present when there is nothing to do — no life-saving remedy or magic cure, and words no longer have meaning? How to be present when you wish you could relieve the suffering and yet understand that neither the timing nor the suffering are in your control? How to honor the time dying takes and sustain your resolve to support – not control?

Darlena feared aging. She was scared when her mother grew old. She was determined to end her life if cancer further diminished her. She did not end her life. Gradually she withdrew her energy from the daily ritual of beautifying her home. Gradually she stopped rising out of bed early to beat the sun up. Gradually she slept more and spoke less. Gradually she no longer had room for music. Gradually she spoke her truth about the betrayals and abandonment she felt plagued her this lifetime. Gradually, she grieved. Gradually, she stopped eating lobster and coffee ice cream, and gave up the resolve to die at home.

Before she died, she let in the love of people who surrounded her and said how tragic and sweet to finally experience love. She thanked friends who encircled her. She smiled. We retreated about five feet from her bed and spoke softly, hoping she would continue her journey. She did. And we are here continuing our journey, grateful to Darlena who taught us each to be more present in her dying time.

Weaving Anger, Palm Sunday, and April Fools’ Day

April 1, 2012

 I  took refuge in a comfortable, quiet neighborhood restaurant after a busy and inspiring day of being at an all-day workshop with hundreds of other dedicated writers. I stretched out my legs as I sipped my cup of dark house blend coffee. I appreciated the uncluttered walls and the leisurely feel of the energy that surrounded me. I was happy to be alone after a day of workshops, book signings, and conversations. My body surrendered to the softness of the cushioned chair. I took another savoring sip of coffee and reviewed my week, hoping to lasso a theme for my blog.

Suddenly, my eyes darted to a couple sitting next to a large window. The energy coming from the man and woman who appeared to be in their late twenties felt intense and compelling. The music from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played in the background, and I tapped my fingers and feet to the escalating rhythms. The music drowned out their conversation. I felt like I was watching or perhaps even participating in a silent movie. No longer revisiting The Maine Festival of the Book in my mind or figuring out what to write about in my weekly blog, I stared at the couple.

The young woman leaned forward, slammed her coffee cup on the table, wrapped her arms around her chest, and shook her head vigorously from side to side. Her lips moved but I could not make out her words. The man sitting across from her pointed his right index finger close to her face, then pulled his hand back, and lunged for her arm. Motion and emotion collided as I watched the energy erupt between them.

Then the woman abruptly motioned to the exit sign, grabbed her coffee cup and winter coat, and stumbled from the table. The man ran after her, only a few seconds of space separated them.

I looked around me. People sipped coffee, conversed, read the Sunday paper, or concentrated on their computers. I was surprised that I seemed to be the only one aware of the angry encounter that despite a change of scenes continued in the parking lot. Looking out of the large picture window, I realized that I was holding my breath. I was afraid that someone was about to be hurt in this angry collision. Still no sound as the action outside continued.

Watching the interaction between the two warriors reminded me of times I had reacted in anger, usually directed toward a partner who I thought had betrayed me or some value I held sacred. I remembered how I, too, expressed my outrage because I needed my feelings to be acknowledged or to be right. Usually my anger created walls, more distance than intimacy, and often counterattack rather than reconciliation and tenderness.

I shook my head and smiled as I remembered my seven-year-old grandson, Noah, remarking, “Oh, you foolish mortals,” when he watched the long lines of people waiting to buy tickets for the biggest US lottery in history.

Returning my attention to the escalating drama outside the cafe, I watched the woman throw up her hands, hurl the coffee cup against the pavement, and make an ‘It’s over, or I’m done’ gesture in the air. Then she spat at him — her gesture carrying more meaning than words. Without looking back, she opened her car door, slammed it shut, and careened out of the parking lot. I doubt if she saw him sticking his middle finger up at her before he ran to his car which was parked in the next row, and raced out of the lot after her.

Their story did not end here. I finished my breakfast, satisfied that I now had a beginning idea for my blog and headed for church. As I drove, I reflected on the couple, aware that this was both Palm Sunday as well as April Fools’ Day, and somehow that seemed relevant. Before I figured out the connection, I noticed flashing blue lights on top of a police car on the opposite side of the road. I recognized the two cars even before I spotted the two silent warriors. Another character had entered the silent movie. The police officer stood between them writing on a pad. I don’t know if he was issuing a ticket, preparing to arrest one or both of them, or writing out the preliminaries for a restraining order.

As I drove past slowly, I imagined the angry couple’s relationship permanently damaged. Even though I had heard not one word spoken from either person, energy can scream. Yet other times, it can overflow with love, compassion, and forgiveness.

We do react like April fools when we forget that love is forgiving, or when we over-ride the Palm Sunday message to love and serve one another in favor of being right. Both frozen anger and out of control anger diminish our ability to love ourselves and each other. I know the truth of that statement in every cell of my being. As I looked though my rear view mirror and realized the silent movie had ended for me, I committed myself to live in love.

Anniversaries, Choices, and Perception

March 23, 2012

Have you ever thought about something and then things happen that seem to connect to what you were pondering? Last week I started to anticipate the approaching anniversary of my son’s death. This will be the 35th year that I have counted off the days until March 23rd has come and gone. Each year I am surprised by the vividness of the details of Mike’s death and life. My emotional memory knows no time.

For the past few years, I have deliberately chosen to carry on with my normal activities instead of devoting the day to remembering Mike. My perceptions and understanding have changed over the decades. I no longer need to devote an entire day to remembering Mike because I now honor his life by celebrating myself. This year I decided to join my swimming buddies for my regular workout. None of my new pool friends knows me as the mother of a dead son.

I returned to my journal to continue to reflect on perception and how personal perception is. Then the phone rang and I learned about the death of another friend — the fourth friend who has died this year. I sent out a prayer and felt my sadness that Jim and I now no longer would be evolutionary buddies – at least not on this dimension. Then I was overwhelmed by a deep appreciation for the privilege of knowing Jim this lifetime.  One of the lessons that has surprised me over time is how subtly expressed grief shape-shifts into appreciation. I sighed and smiled and then returned to writing about perceptions and how uniquely personal our perceptions are. Mike’s death changed forever my perception and relationship with death, life, and the process of honoring all.

Later in the day I wrote:

Normal was disrupted today. My first clue was the crowded swimming parking lot. My second clue was the loud shouts that escaped from the swimming pool building even with the door closed. My third clue was no empty lockers in the changing room.

When I opened the door to the pool, I felt like I hit a wall of screams. The kids’ side of the pool overflowed with elementary-aged children. Their shrieks and screams and whistles made my head ache.

I walked toward the steps and tried to shake off the noise. As I walked closer to the edge of the pool, I noticed that each child was smiling and enjoying their “alternative exercise.” The parents and teachers who supervised seemed happy, too. As I searched for a vacant spot to jump into the pool, one of the teachers motioned the kids to move over and shouted in my ear that she hoped her class would not disturb my swimming routine.

I smiled and said loudly, “I am glad to see so many happy kids. Good for all of you for arranging this and even getting wet yourselves.”

When I joined my quiet, senior group, everyone commented about the unexpected invasion of children. One woman, shrugged, grimaced and said sternly, “At this moment, I wished I were deaf,” and swam off. Another friend covered his ears and said he was leaving because he could not swim with all the noise. Willy shrugged, smiled and said, “Good kids, good parents and teachers, and later I watched as he initiated a game of ball tag with half the group. Still anther disgruntled senior swimmer said, “I’m glad I didn’t put my hearing aids in today because even without them, this noise is intolerable.”

Perhaps because I was conscious of appreciating the lives – now gone – of Mike and Jim, or maybe because I delight in being outrageously spontaneous, I screamed, “I’ll bet we can scream even louder than they can,” to the group who gathered at the far end of the pool near the diving board.

One woman looked me in the eye and said, “Do you really think so?”

“No question,” I replied. “I’ve been a mother, a grandmother and a teacher, and I have had lots of experience exercising my loud voice.”

“What do you say? Are you in? I know we have the power to out shout them and surprise them, too.”

One by one, my swimming companions swam off. Only one remained.

“Are you in?” I challenged.

She pointed to our disappearing friends and said, “It’s only the two of us left.”

“So?’ I said.

“Do you think we have a chance?”

“How many kids did you raise?

“Five,” she responded.

“How many times did you raise your voice?”

“Too many to count,“ she replied.

“Are you ready to have some fun?” I asked.

She nodded. We moved closer to one another. Our friends watched us from a safe distance.

“At the count of three, let’s scream like we mean it. Let’s play kids.”

One, two, three. We opened our mouths wide and our screams echoed around the pool, circling several times before we both ran out of breath. All activity stopped. The four lifeguards stared at us. Then two rushed over to see what was wrong. Silence reigned in the pool. In unison we burst into boisterous laughter, followed by high fives.

Then one of our friends who had deserted us swam over and said, “You two are acting worse than the kids,” in a disapproving voice. We laughed louder and splashed him with water. He splashed me back and we both ducked under water. When I emerged, I hugged myself and remembered Mike and felt connected to him in joy – not grief.

I left the pool marveling again about how unique our perceptions of events are.

In the evening, I returned to my journal and wrote:

I enjoyed acknowledging Mike’s memory today. I had no need to share the meaning of the day with my new pool friends. I appreciated my playfulness and ability to be light and felt like I had honored both of us on this day.

My Swimming Community

January 15, 2012

I swim three or four days a week in the neighboring town. I joined the Senior Swim group about a year ago when I moved from my hometown in southern Maine to the small town of Hermon, Maine. For the first four months, nobody spoke to me although occasionally someone nodded in my general direction.

Clearly, I was an outsider. Imagine being with women in various stages of undressing, showering, and getting dressed and nobody speaks to you. I felt invisible.

I comforted myself by remembering that I was absorbed in writing and then editing my book, Awaken, and I was not looking for community. However, I missed a smile, a greeting, or a sense of connection, however small.

I convinced myself I was shunned because I was the only woman who swam laps. I joined to exercise and I swam vigorously. I did notice that only men occupied the lap lanes while the women banded together on the shallow end of the pool and talked, never wetting their bathing caps.

I am an outrageous extrovert by choice. Initiating conversations is a hobby. Clearly, it was my choice to initiate contact or remain nameless and disconnected. I was determined. However, I watched and waited for someone to welcome me for twelve weeks. Then one day I locked eyes with one of the women in the locker room, held out my hand, and introduced myself.

She looked confused, or perhaps afraid, gasped, took a step backward, and then tentatively reached out and shook my hand. “My name is Karen but all my friends call me Kareen.”

I smiled and asked, “What would you like me to call you?”

“Kareen, of course,” she replied.

“My friends call me Rosie or Rosalie,” I said with a smile and squeezed her hand.

In the coming days and weeks, Kareen introduced me to every one of my swim mates. I repeated each person’s name and made a note of what each person looked like. Each day I swam I repeated their names. Within a few weeks, people waved to me and called out my name as I entered and left the pool. I smiled and waved back.

I appreciate how we watch out for one another. For example, Polly does not hear well and has had cataract surgery and does not see well, either. She rules the lanes when she swims. Everyone looks out for her or we risk a collision.

Rich, an 85-year-old man, exercises his legs which are stiffened with arthritis. I asked him if he tried acupuncture and he replied, “Too old. Besides, I prefer bourbon.” Tom, a giant of a man, who wears a yellow bathing cap, claims the inner lane. We all give way to him. It is, after all, his lane. When he was hospitalized for hip surgery, nobody swam in his lane. Instead we shared lanes and waited patiently for our turns.

Before long everyone knew I was working on a book. A few people asked what I was writing about and how long before they could read Awaken. Others asked if I wrote in my head while I swam. At lunch today, I was introduced to non-swimming husbands and wives as, “This is Rosie, our writer swimmer.”

When Awaken was published, the local newspaper did a feature story about me and my new book. Someone posted the article and my picture on the community bulletin board with a big red heart around my picture. Everybody commented and promised to come to my book signing at the local library. I felt like a celebrity.

One year later a few of the women swim with me. We sputter words of encouragement as we pass one another in adjacent lanes. One women boasts that she swam her way through depression after the death of her husband. Another woman is a cancer survivor and says that swimming gave her back her life. One of the men returned to swimming and our group after surviving a heart attack and said our group was his heart’s home. Another woman records everyone’s birthdays and passes around a card for us to sign.

Today was my one-year anniversary and I joined the swimming squad for lunch. Spouses who do not swim dined with us. Putting faces and names to people I heard stories about for months was fun. I chuckled as I wondered how they would respond if they realized I knew intimate details about them? Mattie, a woman about my age, whose husband died a few months after he retired, made delicious chocolate turtles for each of us, a ritual she and her husband did every year they were married.

I feel welcomed in the group now. I also honor the long history these people have shared with one another. Some of them were classmates in elementary school and taught in the same community. Many of them are godparents for each other’s grown children. They have supported each other through births, accidents, celebrations, divorces, retirements, and deaths. Two women shared the same husband — although not at the same time!

Moving into a new community at the age of 67 is difficult. Most people have long-established friendships and little time to add a single woman to their list of friends. Being retired is another challenge. No longer do I meet colleagues and chat about our mutual interests and challenges over tea.

I appreciate how important community is as a safe harbor and also a jumping-off place. I spoke to a homeless veteran a few weeks ago and he said one of the worst things about being without a home was that seldom did anyone call him by his name.

Today I smile at strangers and shake hands with people I do not yet know. I introduce myself and ask their names. I tell them I am new in the community and ask them for suggestions about what to see and do. Occasionally, I invite a stranger to share a cup of coffee or lunch with me. My treat! That is how I met Carl, the man without a home or family. I smiled as I appreciated that I welcomed him the way I wished I had been welcomed when I first joined the Senior Citizens swimming hour.

Yes, the maxim feels right: If you want more love in your life, or community, fulfillment, fun, or lightness, become that which you desire.

Kindness Multiplied

January 2, 2012

I am continually amazed by the blessings that happen to me and others when I align with my soul purpose. Being aware, awake, and appreciative resonates with my soul purpose.

My airport story begins as I take my shoes off, load the gray buckets with my belongings, and notice an elderly woman in a wheel chair in the line across from me as an attendant helps her remove her shoes and socks. Both of her bare feet were bandaged. I heard a security person yell, “Random Check” just as I was about to push my bags on the silver rollers for a security check. When I realized that the frail, white-haired woman in the wheelchair was the one to undergo a search, I watched more closely. An airport attendant leaned over her and told her he would help her stand up. She looked confused but obediently tried to stand up. I watched as she struggled to stand up. Her hands shook. I shuddered, noting that she was about five feet from the walk through security apparatus.

Without thinking, I left my line and belongings and said to the security agent, “Please let me take her place. She is having a hard time even standing up.”

The security agent replied, “This is against airport protocol. Go back to your line.”

I looked at the frail woman who had returned to her wheelchair, and said, “You announced this was a random check, right? So doesn’t that mean you have no reason to suspect that the woman in the wheelchair is a terrorist. I am volunteering to let you search me instead.”

“This is not your choice,” he barked. “I will call my supervisor if you do not return to your line.”

Motivated by kindness and aided by an adrenalin surge, I turned, walked behind the wheelchair and pushed the silent woman to my original lane. The attendant waved her through. I returned to face the supervisor.

“What’s going on here, ma’am?”

“Nothing now,” I said, waving goodbye to the woman in the wheelchair as she left the security area.

After I explained my actions, the uniformed supervisor said, “He was only doing the job he is paid to do.”

I smiled and replied, “I, too, was responding in the only way that made sense to me. That crippled woman might have fallen or panicked if he had forced her to submit to a random search.”

“We train our personnel do things by the book, Ma’am. He was following protocol.”

“I observed that, Sir, and I asked your employee to make an exception based on age, fragility, and the fact that it was a random search.

“I could arrest you,” he warned.

“Yes,” I replied, “but in my heart I do not believe I did anything wrong. I guess that is my personal protocol.”

He nodded, uncrossed his arms, and looked around at the people who were watching and listening. I had not noticed anyone but him and his employee. Then he motioned me thorough security. I smiled and said, “Thank You.”

That could have been the end of the story, but it wasn’t. When I arrived at my gate and sat down, a ticket agent approached me and asked to see my ticket. Still recovering from my recent stand-off, I asked her why. She invited me up to the ticket counter. I feared my previous action meant I was being banned from flying.

Then she asked, “Where is your final destination, please?”

“Why?” I persisted.

“Do you have any layovers?” she continued, as if she, too, followed an invisible rule book.

“Can I see your ticket, Ma’am?” she asked.

“As soon as you tell me what this is about,” I said.

“Well. Ma’am, apparently some man thinks you are a heroine. He pointed you out to me and paid for your ticket to be upgraded to first class.”

“Who is he?” I asked, looking around the lounge area.

“He’s not here. He had to make a quick connection. He followed you here and used his credit card to upgrade your ticket. He wanted to repay your kindness. Happy New Year,” she said and smiled for the first time.

I boarded the plane, took my seat in First Class, and ordered a complimentary glass of wine. Then I toasted the nameless woman in the wheelchair and the anonymous man who rewarded my kindness with kindness.

Prayers for Our Ancestors

December 10, 2011

Have you ever needed to pack an overnight bag and get away?

That is what I did last weekend. No destination in mind — only the need for uninterrupted quiet and solitude. My journey ended in Bingham, Maine, a small town, fifty miles from the Canadian border, inhabited by hunters at this time of year.

I obeyed an inner calling from my heart to climb to the top of Moxie Falls, in Bingham, Maine. I spotted the rock I wanted to sit on from below the falls and negotiated the fallen trees and bushes that obscured the path to reach it. I seemed to be under the spell of the big boulder as I climbed the cumbersome trail. I felt like the huge brown rock had chosen me and I had no idea why. However, I trusted that if I relaxed, opened my heart, and listened, I might learn more.

Once I sat on the rock, and flung my legs over the edge, I surrendered to the passionate pull of an unspoken prayer. Although I was not aware of whom or what I was praying for, I sensed that forgiveness was the focus. I do not own a watch, so I had no clue how long the prayer lasted. I only knew I was finished when I felt tears running down my cheeks.

When I opened my eyes and looked down to a big pool of water 85 feet below, I spotted a tall, slender man staring up at me. I was not sure if he belonged to the expanded dimension of my prayers or if he existed in everyday reality. Then he waved his arms and cupped his hands to his mouth. I arched my body closer to the edge of the rock in an attempt to hear him. Maybe then I could figure out what dimension he resided in.

He shouted. I could not hear all the sounds. More syllables echoed over the whooshy sound of the waterfalls. I repeated fragments of his words to myself.

Louder still, he hollered, “Mitakuye Oyasin!”

My body trembled in recognition. I first learned that Indian word when I lived in Taos, N.M. twenty years ago. Native Americans use it to begin and end prayers. It means “All my relations.”

Without thinking, I stood up on the rock, cupped my hands to my mouth, and repeated, “Mitakuye Oyasin.”

“May I have permission to approach?” he hollered.

His request seemed to me like he was speaking from another time and I again questioned what dimension I was inhabiting. I nodded.

As I watched him nimbly climb the rocky trail, I wondered if I was making a mistake. Nobody knew I had driven to Bingham and spent the night in the only motel within a fifty-mile radius. He could push me off the rock and I could end up 85 feet below. I breathed and unhitched myself from my worried imagination and asked my body for a vote. I sensed no anxiety or stress. Too late to make a different choice. My inner story was interrupted by the man’s voice asking, “May I join you on this rock?” I moved over a bit and he sighed.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said with tears in his eyes. I sensed he was not just thanking me for moving over and sharing my rock with him.

“My great-grandfather’s spirit is now free. He can move on now.”

I shook my head, feeling as though I had walked into a movie midway through.

“How long have you been watching me?” I asked.

“Since you came into the clearing and started climbing up the trail,” he said quietly.

“Why did you come here this day?” I inquired.

“My heart ordered me to be here,” he replied.

I gasped, “Mine, too.”

“I watched you pray and I listened to your prayers and I knew my great-grandfather was free. My family’s prayers are finally answered. I can tell them this is a good day,” he replied.

“But I did not pray out loud,” I said, as if grounding myself in my present reality.

“My heart heard your prayers,” he replied.

“Let me tell you the story of my family. A long time ago there was a battle between your people and my people. My great grandfather killed a white woman — a grandmother. My great-grandmother buried his bones beneath this rock and since I was a small boy, I’ve heard the story that his spirit could not be free to return to the ancestors until a white woman prayed for him.”

My hand clutched my heart and I began to cry understanding at that moment the meaning of my passionate prayer. Within the same moment, I also understood that more people had died and appreciated that they, too might be moved on in their journey by prayers even though their bones were not buried directly under the stone on which we sat.

“Would you be willing to offer prayers to the others who died in that skirmish?” I asked.

He nodded and invited me to begin and assured me he would add his prayers when I had no more words. This time I knew our prayers needed to be spoken out loud. I began.

When I had no more voice, he continued. Intuitively I knew when he had run out of energy and I took another turn. I felt like we were singing a finely-crafted and practiced duet. The power and peace of our mutual prayers gave me full hope that any spirits that might be hanging around were now free. He prayed for the land and asked that the earth be healed now and for all future generations. I asked that our prayers extend to the stars, remembering that Native Americans often refer to stars as campfires of their ancestors. Our prayers encircled us until we both knew we were finished. The sacred hoop was complete. For the first time, we smiled at one another.

“May I walk with you down the mountain?” he asked.

I nodded, knowing in advance our walk would be completed in silence.

He walked me to my car. We shook hands formally. Then he asked me my name.

“Rosalie Deer Heart,” I said, and we both laughed. I had no idea why and I have no need to understand any of the coincidences that conspired to create the blessing of that day. All I know is when I follow my heart’s directive, I often visit other dimensions and other times. Then I feel like a bridger and a midwife and my heart leaps with joy.

Mitakuye Oyasin.

Soccer and Love

November 30, 2011.

Rosie and Noah

My seven-year-old grandson delights in playing sports. He lives for soccer in the fall, basketball in the early winter and baseball in the spring. He claims all sports as his “favorite.”

His coaches describe him as a natural athlete and I marvel at his “kinesthetic intelligence” as I watch how naturally his body serves him as he moves in the direction of the ball and has an instinct to know where to be in order to assist or score points.

He dreams sports and entertains me with magical plays he sees in his dreams. I listen and go back in my memory for sports dreams and find none.

Noah is also a romantic athlete. Ever since kindergarten, he has “crushed” on a girl and she resides in his heart for the entire school year. The first day of first grade, his heart opened to Sidney and she has continued to be his heart’s love for the second year.

They both play sports although they have never played on the same team. Our town is small so boys and girls play together on the same team until fourth grade.

Soccer and love collided during the final game of the season. The score was tied with two minutes remaining in the game. I was standing with Sidney’s mother as we both cheered Noah and Sidney on! Then it happened! Sidney claimed the ball and began methodically kicking it down the field. Noah was on defense. He crouched lower to the ground as he saw her heading in his direction. None of her teammates were around and it was clear to us that she was the designated one to score or not score. Noah was the only opponent who stood between her and the last win of the season.

He had defended his zone masterfully the entire game. Sidney scored two goals. Noah scored two goals for his team.

I held my breath, no longer hollering encouragement to Noah. Sidney’s Mom was quiet, too. We both appreciated that the stakes were high. I was glad I was a grownup and not a soccer player on the field.

Sidney continued to control the ball and she move fast. As she approached Noah, I watched as he looked directly into her eyes. With one motion, he threw up his hands, moved aside, and smiled as she scored the winning goal.

His coach looked at me and said with a smile, “Guess love is more important than winning to Noah.” I smiled and nodded.

As we walked off the field, Noah grabbed my hand and said, “ Grandmom, do you think I did the right thing?”

“I don’t know, Noah, do you think you did the right thing? That’s what’s most important.”

“I didn’t expect my teammates to be angry,” he said. “But they will get over it,” e said philosophically.

Then I asked, “How did you decide to let Sidney score, Noah?”

“That was the easy part, Grandmom, when I looked into her eyes as she was racing down the field, I knew her heart would be broken if she did not score the winning goal and I wanted her to be happy. And I would do it the same way, again.”

I nodded and hugged him and told him I was proud of him. Then I said, “You know what, Noah, I believe that whenever we make a choice from our heart, we win.”

“I learned that today, too, Grandmom.”

Soccer As Moving Meditation

October 12, 2011.

Soccer season kicked off a few weeks ago. If you want to find anybody in our little town of Hermon, Maine (population 3,405) on the next 8 Saturdays, head to the school field. Parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, teachers, neighbors and fans gather to watch and support the children. Everyone cheers boisterously for each goal, no matter which team scores. Good sportsmanship and humor reign in the stands and on the field.

Boys and girls play on the same team. I am amazed by how many inches they grew over the summer. Boys whose heads used to stop at my waist now almost reach my nose. Girls who were flat-chested at school’s end now wear training bras. Boys and girls play on the same team and I marvel at how well they cooperate and give each other strategic advice, hugs and high fives whenever a team mate has blocked a goal, scored a goal, or needs support

I am intrigued by how similar the soccer practices and games are to my moving meditations. Although I will bet that not one of the coaches would identify themselves as meditation teachers, they urge their mini-athletes to be present in the now. Here’s how! I hear the coaches chanting, “Pay attention. Stay awake. Connect to the earth before you kick the ball. Don’t pay attention to the goalie, focus on the ball.” I feel and sense the concentrated intention of the players to be aware, and present. Furthermore, I watch as they move up and down the field without getting attached to who scores or even who wins. Detachment bring delight.

While other spectators catch up on their friendships that summer interrupted, I watch the moving meditation before me and give thanks for all who participate. I am grateful to be in the midst of flowing awareness where nothing feels forced and everyone is grounded in their bodies and also ready to be present for the unexpected. For sure, this sport is an essential life skill that gifts the players and their fans with focused awareness, appreciation, and community.

Completions and Giveaways

October 4, 2011

I am ever on the watch for cycles. Whenever I bring my attention to cycles, no matter what kind, I also track myself. Now that I am a senior woman, I am no longer tuned into the cycles that marked my life when I was younger. Now I visit with the moon each night before bed and in doing so I not only connect to the waxing and waning cycles of Mother Moon, I also connect to my own inner and outer rhythms and forms.

Last week I was acutely aware of celebrating the completion of an intense two-year cycle. My two book launchings of Awaken Your All –Knowing Heart served as the catalyst. I staged my two Book Giveaways at Scarborough Library in Scarborough, Maine and Sadhana Meditation center in South Portland, Maine to thank the librarians and the staff at Sadhana for the loving kindness they extended to me as I labored and gave birth to Awaken. The librarians asked about my progress, ordered books they thought might assist me and referred to me as “the resident writer.” The staff at Sadhana offered me hugs, tea, silence, and a clear space to meditate. Before I shipped my manuscript to the publishers, I carried the manuscript back to both places and thanked people for their support and inspiration.

Celebrations are an important part of any cycle. Community support is an important public ritual for me. I was excited as I greeted people at the door. My energy expanded as I read stories from my book and people laughed and cried in all the right places.

Love led and I followed and invited everyone to join in experiencing the presence of love. I invited everyone to commit to love as a way of expanding consciousness as well as the path to creativity, intuition, spirituality, and healing. I also tithed money to demonstrate my appreciation and belief in abundance and donated a soul reading.

A completion demands reflection. I pause and write about what I have learned.

I leaned how much I enjoy playing with words—massaging them, stringing them together, and inventing new ones.

I learned how hard I push myself when I have made a commitment to create something new.

I learned how I use discipline and lose out on inspiration sometimes and I plan to be more aware of inspiration and trust.  I know lots about self-discipline.

I learned how writing permeates every aspect of my life when I am in the midst of a creative project. Words and ideas invade my dreams, my conversations, my swimming, my reading and even my harvesting my garden. I am not safe from being struck by writing—in the shower, on a walk, star gazing, or meditating.

I learned how delighted I am when I celebrate with people.

Next, I invite a name to commemorate this cycle. The word “Immersion” instantly fills my consciousness. I add a date to this cycle and declare it complete.

As an unexpected bonus I discovered I had completed another cycle when I returned to my familiar swimming pool in South Portland, Maine this weekend. About the time I began to work on Awaken, I committed to swim three or four days a week. The Olympic pool is divided in half between lap swimmers and leisurely swimmers. On Friday, I took a risk and dove into the lap swimmers section, trusting that I had built up my stamina and speed in the year I had continued to swim at a local pool near Hermon, Maine. I reveled in my ability to swim the laps effortlessly. When I emerged the lifeguard gave me a high five and I danced a wet jig.

Another completion and another celebration. I wonder what new beginnings await my awareness!

Equinox

September 23, 2011

I celebrate Mother Earth as a living consciousness each Solstice and each Equinox. You probably already know that the Equinox is a time of perfect balance of daylight and night dark. Did you know that an egg could stand upright without falling during the Equinox? Try it and you, too will appreciate the balanced energy field of our planet. Seasonal passages and cycles can support us as well as alert us to places to balance and expand our own consciousness.

Every Equinox I challenge myself to look at where I feel balance in my inner life and outer expression as well as where I sense imbalance. One of the patterns I notice is how much energy I devote to nurturing others. Like many women, relationships and caring and connecting bring me joy and meaning. The balance practice that I committed myself to maintain until the Winter Solstice in mid December is to gift myself with six hours of silence for one day a week. Time for a word fast, self-care, and going within to discover who will show up.

In Maine autumn is a time of relaxing in front of the fire pit with sweaters, apple picking, getting lost and finding our way in corn mazes, cider pressing, and seeing your breath in front of you in the early morning. My grandmother traditionally made pickles and my mother made jam to celebrate autumn. I concoct nourishing homemade soups and cutback on tabouli and green salads fresh from my garden.

Living in Maine, allows me to be receptive to seasonal passages. For instance, I notice how darkness descends earlier in the day now and mornings take longer to be light. Each morning when Noah, Malia, and I take our beholding walks at 6 AM, we have to figure out if we wear shorts or sweaters and long pants. Soccer and football games replace swimming and kayaking. Roses and cosmos are replaced by asters and mums. Early morning frost kills tomato plants and decorates the maple trees. Cats grow thicker fur and no longer leave behind traces of themselves on furniture.

When I lived in Taos, New Mexico, the doors to the Pueblo closed to visitors for six weeks. Native Americans used the forty-two days for going within, deep dreaming, and meditation. My word for their going within was “ fermenting.”

As a prelude to Equinox, I began to feel a deep stillness when I sat in meditation each day. My inner stillness sustained itself for a week and I felt a sense of deepened peace and possibilities. When I shared my experience with a soul friend, he wondered if my deep stillness was the spiritual equivalent of human contentment. I considered his comparison for a moment before I realized that the deep stillness is balance.

May you, too, experience the blessings of balance during this time.

September 11, 2011

September 11^th is complicated for our family because it is also the birthday of my grandson, Noah. I have felt an unnatural mixture of sadness and celebration for the last seven anniversaries of 9/11.

“Grand mom, you have to admit, it’s a man’s world and all that matters is war and muscles. Being a girl is pretty useless.”

Picture Malia, my ten year old grand daughter, and I sitting on our front steps watching six 7-year-old boys tumbling, wrestling racing, and challenging one another. Juice boxes transformed into squirt guns and carrot sticks became projectiles. Toasted marshmallow on long sticks became flaming swords.

My first response was to reassure Malia that she had power and vision and could impact the world. However, I squelched my knee jerk reaction to launch into my own historical perspective.

In my twenties, thirties, and forties, I marched, protested and joined millions of other women who demanded more personal power and power in the world. I also wanted a different world for my daughter. And that happened. When I went to college in the early sixties, teaching or nursing were the professions open to women. I wanted to be a photojournalist. I surrendered my ambitions to be a photojournalist and studied to be a teacher. Years later, my daughter chose to be a doctor. My vision did not extend to the world my granddaughter might inherit.

I breathed into my heart, and let go of telling her about my participation in peace marches, consciousness raising groups, sit-ins for Roe versus Wade, and even a short jail sentence for a peaceful demonstration for the Equal Rights Amendment. I imagined she would be shocked to know I also drove conscientious objectors across the Canadian border in protest of the Vietnam War.

Then I invited my curiosity to lead. I know at age 67 that I learn more when I let go of my assumptions and my history and connect more deeply with others and myself. Then I naturally enter a woman’s world of relating and caring. Instead of lecturing Malia about my passionate pursuit of equality, I instinctively reached out to hold her hand, a sign of inter-generational sisterhood and comfort.

Without taking her eyes of the boy posse in front of us, she asked,

“How many do you think will call their Moms in the middle of the night because they want to go home?”

“None,” I responded without thinking. “Boys don’t usually do that.” I sighed as I realized I just bumped up against my own stereotype.

“Why not?” challenged Malia.

“Because even if they were scared or homesick, they probably would not admit it.”

“That’s what I am saying, Grandmom, it is a boy’s world. Maybe if they knew it was okay to talk about their feelings, our world might be different.”

I imagined we both remembered her first pajama party when she was seven. Like Noah, she had looked forward to her first sleepover for months. Like the first day of school, an all nighter was a rite of passage. Her best friend got scared and missed her parents. Before ten o’clock the party was over. It took three or four more unsuccessful dress rehearsals before a girlfriend slept over all night.

“Did you expect the party to be as rowdy and rough as this, Grandmom?”

I nodded over the noise. I know boys. I was the mother to my son, Mike, for almost fifteen years. I grew up with a younger brother.

“I kind of like to play with fifth grade boys, but second grade boys are just wild and all over the place. They don’t mind stepping on each other, getting dirty and smelly, and peeing together in the woods.”

I laughed as I admitted that most of the action taken place in front of us was horizontal not vertical.

Then Malia’s friend, Laura, who is 11 years old, arrived on the back of a motorcycle with her Dad. Malia dropped my hand and rushed to hug her best friend. Moments later they returned to the front steps holding hands and giggling.

“Bye, Grandmom, we are going into my room to do “girlie stuff.”

I smiled and felt hopeful because she already knows the value of girlfriends and caring. And she has me to remind me that she will grow into her own voice and vision, and that she will learn about her power in relationship with other girls. Perhaps, in time, this world will become a people’s world in which relationships and creativity replace war and muscle.

Stones, Frozen Music, and Soul

September 6, 2011

Join me as I weave the themes of sculpting, soul readings, detachment, and angels. Staying present is the thread that connects the threads.

Pythagoras, the Greek mathematician and philosopher, believed that stones are frozen music. I agree. Ten years ago I developed a passion for sculpting stones. Full time grandmothering for the past seven years left little time for my artistic passion.

I was surprised how instinctively, I merged with the pink and white alabaster stone to hear the hum of its inner frozen music. Without plans for what the stone might become, I listened and reflected deeply. In a meditative state, I settled into my body and invited my intuition to guide my hands—not knowing anything and trusting everything.

I smiled as I remember Mary Shephard, my first sculpting teacher who insisted I let go of the first ten forms that emerged from a stone. She stressed that the moment I thought I had a sense of the possibilities, I needed to surrender the form and return to filing. I resisted her guidance initially because I felt relieved to see even a hint of a form emerge from within the stone. Plus, I was eager to begin and finish.

Today I honor her wisdom of waiting and witnessing because I trust that I will hear the stone’s hum if I am quiet and overflowing with appreciative awareness. Practicing detachment feels like watching the passing clouds change shapes and disappear.

A shape or story always emerges. I participate in this ongoing co-creative process by filing away stone that does not add to the essence of the emerging shape. Sculpting is a subtracting process unlike clay building, which is an addition process. For me sculpting and soul making are similar. As we align more deeply to our destiny, our soul purpose, any aspect of our personality that limits us, is filed away.

Imagine my delight when I spied the outstretched wings of a bird within the stone. When I turned the stone a bit to the left, I caught a hint of the beginning of a small head. I filed and the fine white dust flew into the air and reminded me to stop, look and listen for more cues. Then my mind challenged me to remember exactly how a bird is structured. The ratio of head, body, and wingspan felt foreign to me. Back to nature. Since we have three cats, the bird population is scarce around our home. So I disappeared into the house and grabbed a bird book and studied the proportions of a bird. Better prepared, I returned to my workbench and the stone.

Enter the angel. If you have read my earlier blogs, you might remember that my awareness of angels is expanding. As I turned the stone over, I beheld a distinct image of an angel. Then I breathed gently and looked deeply. Inwardly, I felt the inner music of the angel’s celestial signature. Instantly, I was inspired to add my energy and talent to the emerging shape. My head did not distract me with ratios and right proportions. My heart and hands knew exactly how to cooperate with the stone to release the emerging angel.

When I do a soul reading, I follow an identical honoring process as I listen inwardly for guidance. I behold a person’s essence just like I honor a stone’s essence. I relax, merge with the soul of my beloved, let go of knowing everything or anything, and the soul’s story emerges. Being present is the only requirement.

The angel sculpture is complete except for sanding and polishing. I am not in a hurry to finish. As long as the angel is unfinished, I remain present. When the angle is polished and secured to a base, I will continue to listen to the flowing music of the stone angel as I make a commitment to listen to the music of my own soul.

Birthdays, Swimming, and Remembering

May 4, 2011

I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of my seventh book, Awaken: Awakening Your All-Knowing Heart. Soon it will have covers and a spine. My friend, Ed Rosenberg, describes this book as my “life’s work,” and I agree. Basically, this book contains the major themes and passions of my life including: love, intuition, creativity, consciousness, writing , spirituality, and healing.

At the request of friends, I also included many personal stories that reminded me of the importance of my voice and my visions. Many people who know me will be surprised by some of the stories. Friends I have not had the opportunity to meet yet, will say, “What? You’ve got to be kidding me?” All the stories are true.

I am very much in my heart on this day as I am on each May 4th. My son, Mike, was born on this day 49 years ago.

For 34 years I have remembered his birthday without him being in my physical life. For me, this day is a time of sweet rememberings and sad regrets. I light a candle, say a prayer, hug myself, bless Mike’s life, and move through this day.